


Our Hearts Lay Dreaming

by mad_magic



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Found Families, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Clarke, Neighbors, Pining, Princess Mechanic friendship, Slow Burn, Summer Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2019-10-23 15:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17686226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mad_magic/pseuds/mad_magic
Summary: Octavia’s eyes meet Clarke’s when she imparts one last piece of wisdom. “What about this…stay away from boys on bikes. They’ll only break your heart.”Her stare is shrewd, like she knows something Clarke doesn’t. What exactly does she think Clarke and her brother are up to at night? People probably assume they’re hooking up. But to Clarke, it’s so much more than that.Neither of them had to carry the burden of lonely nights alone anymore. They could share them together....Clarke and Bellamy go on a quest. For Clarke, it's about all the experiences she denied herself before. For Bellamy, it's about learning how to forgive himself. An Along for the Ride AU.





	1. one.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> This is my first fic for the 100, so I'm pretty excited. I've had the idea for a while now so I finally decided to start posting it. Starting 2019 with Bellarke, like we all deserve ;-) 
> 
> Quick note: this fic is inspired by Along for the Ride by Sarah Dessen. I'm going in my own direction with the plot, but some stuff and the characters here are influenced by the book--which I recommend if you're looking for a light romance. 
> 
> Okay, let's do this. Enjoy!

“In the end, I went away for the summer, fell in love, and everything changed. It’s the oldest story in the world.” – Along for the Ride

 

* * *

 

_Hi Clarke!!!_

Clarke can feel her eye twitch in irritation. Are the three exclamation points really necessary? Bracing herself, she reads on.

_I hope your last week of classes are going well. Your father always said you’re a brilliant girl, just like your mother. Everything is wonderful over here! Your sister-to-be should be arriving any day now. How time flies huh? We just finished decorating the nursery. I’ve done it all in pink and brown; it’s gorgeous. I’ll attach a picture so you can see._

_Your dad is busy as a bee. His new book has him up all hours of the night. I can’t wait to see how it turns out. He sends you his love!_

_Clarke, I really hope you’ll consider visiting us when you’re done with school. It would be so much fun and make this summer even more special for all of us. Just come anytime. We’d love to have you._

_Love,_

_Stella_

Not gonna happen, Clarke thinks, closing out of her e-mail.

She wishes that’d be the end of it. That she could swipe the message and its contents from her mind like a clean slate, forgetting its existence. But it doesn’t work that way. Instead, her stepmother’s words root themselves in her mind and won’t leave.

Clarke’s eyes turn to the wall behind her desk. On the corkboard beside her color-coded schedule and reminders she’d put up for herself is an old photo of her and her dad. She’s about twelve in the picture. It’s from when Jake took her to his favorite beach—Eden Point in Shallow Valley.

Just glancing at it makes her throat tickle. That used to be their spot. Their secret getaway where the waves were always smooth and it felt like the sun would never set.

Now, Shallow Valley had become her dad’s home with his new family. He’d left her and her mom behind so he could start a new life, a _better_ life, in his favorite place in the world.

Like hell is Clarke going to come visit. She doesn’t want to see him. She doesn’t care about her so-called baby sister being born. Stella is as annoying and exhausting as her constant e-mails suggest. They can have fun playing house far away across the state. As long as they leave her out of it.

From the other room, Clarke hears a sudden burst of laughter followed by clinking of glasses. Her eyes roll at the noise.

Her mother is hosting another one of her dinner parties. Abby would claim it as an intimate, casual setting for intellectuals to discuss literature and theory over wine. In reality, these get-togethers are an excuse for male grad students to gaze lustfully upon her mother and shower her with with praise.

Dr. Abby Griffin is a brilliant woman. Clarke is proud to call her mom (and share half of her genes). With a PhD, a Pulitzer Prize and four critically acclaimed books under her belt, one might wonder why Jake had left her for a ditzy boutique owner with a poor grasp on grammar.

Clarke didn’t wonder, though, because she knew the truth.

Taking a glance at the time—eleven thirty pm—Clarke eases her bedroom door open with her toe and peers in at the scene.

Sure enough, her mother stands at the head of the dining table, a glass of wine in hand as she delivers her argument with shrewd conviction. The kind of confidence that can’t be faked, but is birthed from knowing exactly what you’re talking about and have a doctorate level of expertise to back it up.

Clarke knows, from studying her mother for years and trying to emulate that same unfaltering self-assurance. Her mother makes it look effortless as always, the way she commands a room’s attention. The grad students hang off her every word, although in Clarke’s opinion, most of them don’t give two shits about Marlowe and the culture of women.

Confirming that the host and guests are thoroughly occupied, Clarke eases the door shut. She grabs her hoodie off the back of her desk chair—worn, oversized, bearing Alpha University’s logo—and tugs it on. Then she’s slipping out the back door of the house and climbing into her car.

She drives down the quiet, familiar streets of Arkadia. Her home. Most of the streets are empty and the storefronts dark, until she reaches the lit neon sign of The Ark diner. The place is small, nondescript, and open 24-hours a day. Exactly what Clarke is looking for.

She’s been coming here for years now, since she got her license. When silence became her constant companion instead of sleep, Clarke needed somewhere to escape—to become another shadow in the night. The anonymity of The Ark is perfect, although no one is looking for her anyway.

For the past two years, on more nights than not, Clarke spends the hours here in a booth, studying or reading or sketching (if she’s inspired), until the sun comes up.

Clarke stopped being able to sleep at a reasonable hour three years ago, when her parents’ marriage finally fell through the cracks. It’d been a long time coming: the conflicts between them too deep to overcome, the resentments piling up, the fighting relentless. Something had to give.

(Clarke lays out the facts in her mind and tries to observe them with a keen, clinical eye. Still, it was a blow. Still, she was a naïve child thinking her parents’ love was the exception. Wrong. Love, she learned, is as conditional as everything else).

The sleeplessness started when Clarke picked up on a pattern in their household. Her parents fighting always took place at the dinner table, turning the kitchen into a minefield. The blow-up was inevitable. All it took was a scathing remark from her mom or a passive aggressive comment from her dad and _boom_.

There was a lag in the fighting, around ten or eleven pm. Clarke figured out her parents waited for her to be asleep before they started up again. So Clarke started staying up. She left her light on, took trips to the bathroom, made it clear she was up and could hear them.

For a while, it worked. Until it didn’t. There was no stopping them at that point, their marriage barely hanging on by a fragile thread. By then, Clarke’s body got used to staying up late and her mind didn’t quiet down for rest, the way it was supposed to.

Now, she sits at The Ark. The nice thing about the diner is that Clarke gets to be alone. Nobody is asking for more than she’s willing to give and all the interactions are short and sweet. If only _all_ her relationships could be this easy to navigate.

One example of these interactions happened last fall, when Clarke was working her way through her pile of college applications.

The waitress swung by, wearing a nametag that reads _Nygel._ As she was filling up Clarke’s coffee cup, she noticed the papers Clarke was filling out.

“Alpha University,” she read out loud. An impressed gleam entered her eye. “Top tier school.”

Clarke nodded. “One of the best.”

“Think you’ll get in?”

“Yeah. I do.”

Nygel pat her hand and chuckled like she was cute. “Ah, to be young and confident. Good luck, kid.”

Clarke doesn’t need luck. She just works hard. In fact, there had never been a point in her academic career that she had let up. Alpha University has accepted her early admission. They’d be hard-pressed to find a better candidate than her.

Yeah, maybe it sounds conceited. But that doesn’t make it any less true. Clarke is this year’s Valedictorian, top of her class. She’s competitive by nature and an overachiever by nurture. She aced all her AP classes with flying colors. She tutored kids in between her demanding schedule, all for the sake of rounding out her impressive application.

When you’re raised by Abby and Jake Griffin, you don’t accept anything less than excellence. Failure isn’t an option.

Clarke’s life is set, the path clear-cut and laid out before her. She will graduate in a week’s time. In the fall she will be away at school, surrounded by knowledgeable professors and rigorous, academic types all serious about their future. People that make _sense_ to her. All there to learn as much as possible and make something great of themselves.

Come September, it’s her turn to fulfill the Griffin legacy. 

 

* * *

 

Her stepsister, Thisbe Caroline Griffin, is born the day before her graduation.

Her father calls the next morning, exhausted. “I’m so sorry, Clarke. I hate to miss your speech.”

“It’s fine,” Clarke says, clipped. Her nails pinch into her palms. The sting helps distract her from the one thought running through her head in a loop.

 _The biggest day of my life and you won’t be there_.

Circumstances change. Priorities shift. Her father has a new responsibility on his hands, a new set of obligations to take care of. Stella—and _Thisbe_ —come first.

She listens politely as her dad talks about the baby’s birth weight, how Stella handled the delivery, his pride and joy evident in every lilt of his voice.

“Tell her I said congratulations,” she offers. That’s what you’re supposed to say, right?

“I will. And you go out there and give ‘em hell, kid.”

Clarke thanks him and hangs up the phone. She turns to the full length mirror behind her door, doing a last minute check. Her hair seems to be holding her curls despite the blistering May day outside. She’s wearing a blue lace dress and black pumps. Camera ready.

 _It’s a big day,_ her mother reminded her that morning. _We’ll take a lot of pictures to commemorate it._

In the mirror’s reflection, Clarke can spot her hands trembling. Not from nerves, but the mass of disappointment sitting on her chest. It’s like the more she tells herself not to cry, the harder her body resists.

A knock sounds on the door before it swings open. Clarke takes a step back to avoid being clocked in the face.

Wells appears in her doorway, his smile big and bright. “Hey rockstar. Ready to roll?”

Her best friend takes one look at her face and his own drops. “Hey,” he says, softer. “Clarke, what’s wrong?”

She clears her throat. “My dad can’t make it. The baby came last night.”

“Oh.” Wells frowns, studying her for a long moment. Then, “I’m gonna hug you. You look like you could use a hug.”

Wells steps closer, engulfing her into his broad chest. At first Clarke stands stiff, lifeless, but the warmth of his arms is exactly what she needs to thaw her out. She closes her eyes and rests her cheek on his shoulder.

“Damn it, Wells.” Clarke sniffs. “How do you do that?”

He chuckles. “My hugs have healing properties. Can’t resist them.”

Clarke allows herself a minute of comfort before she pulls back, shaking it off. It’s still a big day. She’s still fucking Valedictorian and no one can take that away from her.

Wells smiles again as he watches her smooth out her dress. “There she is. You ready now?”

Clarke reaches for her purse with her speech notecards stuffed inside. She has the words already memorized, of course, but having them close-by comforts her.

“I’m right behind you.”

They run into her mother in the hallway. Wells goes ahead, proceeding to his dad car’s parked outside. The four of them are riding to the graduation ceremony together.

Her mom comes up to her, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “You look lovely, sweetheart.”

“Thank you.” Clarke hesitates but decides to blurt it out anyway. It’s not like she’s ever been able to keep something from her mother. “Stella had the baby. They named her Thisbe.”

Her mother snorts. “Of all the names from Shakespeare to choose from and you father selects _that_ one? The poor girl. She’ll be having to explain herself her entire life.”

Clarke smirks. She thought something similar when she heard it. Yet, it’s not like her mother has room to talk. She named _her_ after the obscure English poet Agnes Clarke. Her mother is convinced the name is some kind of litmus test. Those that are able to recognize the name are proved worthy of her time and energy.

Her mother shakes her head, as if clearing away thoughts of Stella and the baby. Her eyes focus on her. “Did you finish your speech?”

Clarke nods. “Last night.” She retrieves the notecards from her purse and hands them over for her mom to scan.

She reads them over quickly, her lips pursing. “Inspiring. However, you should rethink that Faulkner quote. It’s too much for an opening. You’ll sound pretentious.”

Clarke accepts the note cards back, her eyes falling to where the words “The past isn’t dead. It isn’t even past” are written in her neat print. She’s right, of course. She always is. “Okay.” 

 

* * *

 

Walking off stage, diploma in hand, is the dream. Clarke has crossed the finish line and entered the world of adulthood, of freedom. She’s eighteen and the possibilities are endless.

Or so they say. For so long, Clarke has been focused on finishing her last year of high school and beginning college, she forgot about the time in between. Suddenly it’s summer and she has nothing to do but wait for her real life to start.

A few days after graduation, Clarke finds herself at the airport, saying goodbye to Wells.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me,” Clarke whines. She’s been pouting and giving him her best puppy dog eyes, but he isn’t budging.

“Come on.” Wells nudges her. “You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Unlikely. Wells has been with her since childhood, her closest friend. If Clarke’s being honest, he’s her _only_ real friend. Clarke’s had classmates she talks to, acquaintances, exes, but not any close friends.

She’s not good at making them and rubs most people the wrong way by being, in Wells’ loving words, a “high maintenance control freak”.

Wells is leaving Arkadia to travel. Like her, he’s lived here his whole life and yearns to see the world before buckling down for college. His dad thinks it’s a great opportunity for him to grow as a person, whatever that is supposed to look like. Wells is already an above-average person, in Clarke’s opinion.

Clarke sighs. “Send me postcards. I’ll miss you.”

She hugs him goodbye, tight, and waits for him to board the plane. It’s harder than she expects, watching someone that’s been practically attached to her hip her whole life go where she can’t follow.

She _could_ have gone with him, maybe. Wells certainly welcomed her to. Maybe if she was a different person—a spontaneous person, less responsible, someone else, she could have. But Clarke doesn’t take risks. She always bets on the sure thing, the _safe_ thing. She has no interest in traveling across the globe just to discover something new about herself.

Clarke drives home. She does the obligatory summer thing—laying out in the sun in her swimsuit, sketching for a while. Eventually she overheats and retreats back inside.

The following days after Wells leaves drag on in a hazy, repetitive blur. Clarke sleeps in until noon or later. She reads or sketches, runs errands, watches Netflix, finding ways to preoccupy herself until her mother comes home.

They have dinner and talk about their days (Abby often bemoaning some colleague or her pressing deadlines). Then her mom disappears into her office to work or hosts another get-together with the grad students. When the late hour approaches, Clarke leaves for the Ark Diner, waiting for the tiredness to reach her. Around sunrise, she crashes. Rinse. Repeat.

Then, during the second week of June, Clarke receives a package.

There’s only one person it could be from and she tears it open eagerly. Inside the brown box is a glass picture frame, dotted with colorful gemstones. The bottom of the frame is engraved with the words: _THE BEST OF TIMES_.

The photo is of Wells standing in front of the Colosseum. Rome. He’s grinning at the camera, carefree in a T-shirt and cargo shorts, a backpack slung on his shoulder.

Clarke smiles at the picture. She sets it on her desk, a spot of brightness in what has become a rather dull space.

Inevitably, Clarke’s eyes flick up to the calendar on her corkboard. Just a month ago, it was filled to the brim with preparations for graduation, tutoring sessions, test dates, even movie nights with Wells. Now her days are somehow empty and she’s stuck here without a purpose, just waiting.

Clarke doesn’t know who she is without a plan. She can feel her spirit slowly decaying here, in a vacant house. It isn’t in her blood to be stagnant. She’ll lose her mind if she stays here before the summer is even halfway over.

An idea pops into her head. It makes Clarke scowl, but her feet carry her over to her laptop anyway. Because a bad plan has to be better than no plan at all. Perhaps she can’t take off to Rome or Barcelona. But she can go _somewhere_.

Clarke clicks open her e-mail and types in a message to Stella’s address. Not giving herself a chance to back out, she hits send. In less than an hour, she has a reply.

_Hi Clarke!!!_

_Absolutely you should come! Stay as long as you like. We’d love the company!_

And just like that, her summer changes. She’s going to Shallow Valley. 

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Clarke packs her car with her suitcase of clothes, her laptop and a bag stuffed with books. Both for pleasure and academic purposes. In her free time, Clarke found the syllabus for some of her classes at Alpha U and went ahead and ordered the texts to acquaint herself with the material.

Not how Wells packed for his trip, she’s sure. But it’s not like she’ll have much else to do in Shallow Valley other than go to the beach and hang out with Stella. Yeah, she’d rather read herself into a coma. 

Clarke is thrumming with newfound energy like a caffeine buzz in her veins. It feels good to have a purpose, feels _right_.

(And a small part of her is hopeful that once she’s there, her dad will have no choice but to make time for her. They can reconnect.)

She said goodbye to her mom the night before, figuring she’d be asleep when Clarke leaves. But when Clarke enters the kitchen, her mom is awake and standing at the sink, cleaning out some wine glasses.

“Late night?” Clarke asks, already knowing the answer. The cocktail party her mother hosted for colleagues from the English Department hadn’t wrapped up until one thirty.

“Not really.” Her mother looks over her shoulder and her sharp eyes notice Clarke’s purse in hand, her sunglasses resting on top of her head. “You’re getting an early start. Are you that eager to get away from me?”

“Of course not.” Clarke shrugs. “Just want to beat traffic.”

She’s surprised to feel a knot of guilt lodge in her throat. There’s nothing technically wrong with Clarke visiting her father, but she can see how Abby might feel about it.

She doesn’t think her mother cares if she’s around for the summer or not. Her mother is rarely home and even then rarely unoccupied. But this is different—Clarke isn’t going anywhere, she’s going to _them_. Into enemy lines.

“I can only imagine what kind of situation you’re about to walk into.” Her mother’s lips quirk in mocking amusement. “Your father with a newborn! At his age! It’s _comic_.”

 _Comic_ isn’t the word that comes to her mind. More like heartrending.

“I guess we’ll see,” Clarke mutters.

Her mother nods, like they just came to an agreement. “Let me know. I’ll require regular updates while you’re gone.”

She dries her hands and crosses the kitchen, pulling Clarke into a hug. Her mother always hugs her tight, like she’d never let her go—before doing just that and sending her on her way.

It’s a five-hour drive to her dad’s house. Shallow Valley is a small beach town, residing right on the coast of the state. Funnily enough, it always felt so much farther. Like an ocean separated her from her father and his other life, instead of 300 miles.

The air smells like sea salt and a deep part of Clarke, long ago buried, aches with nostalgia. After the last visit, Clarke swore she wouldn’t come back here. What is she doing?

She forces herself to draw in a breath. She’s older now. She knows better. It won’t be like last time, because Clarke is the one calling the shots, setting her boundaries. She’s here by choice and is free to walk away whenever she likes.

Her dad and Stella’s house is exactly what she expects. Cute, like something out of a Disney cartoon. The house is painted white with green shutters, a wide front porch complete with rocking chairs and potted flowers. The floor mat has pink flamingos and reads _Welcome!_

Clarke snorts. All that’s missing are the singing birds.

Finally, she rings the bell and tries to tame her scornful thoughts. She’s their guest, after all. There’s no response for a minute, so she rings it again. Nothing.

Two cars are parked in the driveway. They’re definitely home.

Clarke tries the doorknob and it twists open for her. She lets herself inside, calling out “Hello?”

Silence answers her. Something weird is going on here. Clarke expected Stella to greet her with over-affectionate hugs, the baby promptly shoved in her face to coo over. Not this weird quiet, like she’s walking into a tomb.

Clarke walks forward, until her ears finally pick up on something. It sounds like the ocean she heard outside, only closer. She follows the noise around the corner and into the living room until she finally stumbles upon Stella, sitting on the couch with the baby.

She _thinks_ it’s her stepmother. This woman looks nothing like the manicured, perfectly put-together blonde that she remembers. Her hair is thrown into a messy bun and she’s wearing sweatpants with an oversized, stained T-shirt. Her eyes are closed and Clarke is debating waking her when she looks like she desperately needs the rest.

Belatedly, Clarke realizes the sounds she heard are coming from a white-noise machine. It sits on the glass coffee table, playing fake waves crashing over and over to the room.

“If you wake her up,” Stella suddenly hisses, “I will _kill_ you.”

Clarke jumps. “Sorry. I didn’t—”

Stella’s eyes fly open. Her expression morphs from exhaustion into surprise. “Oh, Clarke! I’m so sorry. I forgot you were…you must think…I didn’t mean to…”

Just like that, Stella starts crying. Her shoulders heave with sobs, managing not to wake the tiny, sleeping baby in her arms. Tears flood her big, brown eyes and spill down her cheeks.

Clarke casts a panicked look around the room. Where the hell is her dad? She sees no sign of him anywhere. And Stella shows no signs of stopping her hysterical sobs. She is _so_ not equipped to deal with this.

“Um.” Clarke approaches her cautiously. She bends down, placing a hand on Stella’s quivering shoulder. “It’s okay. I should have called. Don’t worry about it.” She waits as Stella continues to sniffle. “Can I…do anything to help you?”

Stella inhales a shaky breath after another until she calms down. “No. I’m…I’m fine.”

Clarke bites her lip. Her stepmother looks far from fine, with her red dripping nose and the dark circles etched under her eyes. She doesn’t have any experience with new mothers or newborns, but it seems like Stella is one wrong word away from splintering apart.

She’s spared from being that catalyst when the back door opens and her dad appears. He’s carrying a tray of coffee and a brown paper bag. In contrast to Stella, his blue eyes are bright and alert as always.

“Clarke!” Her dad’s face lights up. “There’s my girl.” He turns to place his armful down on the coffee table and then walks over to hug her.

Clarke’s throat gets that tickle again, feeling her dad’s hand run over her hair. For a moment, she wants to cling onto him. Like she’s five and she had a nightmare, but inside her dad’s arms nothing can hurt her.

She pulls away, clearing her throat. _He_ is the one that’s hurt her, far worse than any imaginary monster ever could. Because you don’t trust monsters. They don’t hold the same power over you like the people you love.  

“Did you meet your sister?”

God, she has a _sister_. Eighteen years as an only child and it’s bizarre coming out her dad’s mouth. Clarke barely has time to say no, not yet before he’s taking the baby out of Stella’s arms and presenting her to Clarke.

“This is Thisbe,” her dad murmurs, his eyes warm as he gazes down at her.

Clarke wishes she could say she feels the same tenderness seize her. She looks down at the baby’s face, so soft and delicate. Adorable, in a way that all babies are. But Clarke feels no kinship for the bundle that shares her blood. Is there something wrong with her?

“She’s beautiful,” Clarke says. It’s not a lie and it’s what parents want to hear.

“Isn’t she?” Her dad presses a kiss to the baby’s head. “Just like you, kiddo. Can you believe you were this tiny?”

He bounces Thisbe in his arms, grinning at both of his daughters. Then the baby’s eyes open and she starts to wail. “Uh oh.” Her dad turns back to Stella, sitting in same position on the couch, as her cries grow louder. “Honey, I think she’s hungry.”

Wordlessly, Stella gathers the baby in her arms again. Thisbe’s cries are piercing in the room and Clarke can’t help but wince. Her dad touches her arm, inclining his head toward the glass doors. “Let’s talk outside.”

Clarke glances back at Stella, sitting numbly as her daughter wails and wails without stopping. She feels like she should _do_ something, that urge flaring up in her to act. But it’s not like Clarke can feed her or has any idea what the baby needs.

She follows her dad out onto the deck. The view that greets them is stunning. The house overlooks the beach, with a walkway leading right into the sand. She can see the ocean in the distance, an endless swath of deep blue.

The echoes of crashing waves remind her of Stella, the white-noise machine. “Is she doing okay?”

Her dad sighs, resting his forearms on the deck’s wood railing. “A newborn is a lot of work, Clarke. But Stella will get through it, just like your mom did. She’s just exhausted.”

 _That’s an understatement_ , Clarke thinks. Her stepmother looks like the living dead.

“Why doesn’t she get some help?” She wonders. “I’m sure there are nannies…” _Or you_.

“Oh you know Stella,” he says, as if she does. “She has to do everything on her own. I help when I can, but this book I’m working on is time-consuming.” He turns to look at Clarke, smiling slightly. “Don’t worry, kiddo. The first few months are difficult, but we’ll make it through.”

Clarke nods, absently. He’s probably right. She knows nothing about newborns and it isn’t any of her business.

Her dad brings his hands together with a loud clap. “Anyway. Let’s show you to your room, huh? Where are your bags?”

They collect her things from the car. Her dad jokes about the weight of one bag carrying nothing but books. With bookworms as parents, they shouldn’t be surprised about her love for reading.

Stella and the baby are gone when they return inside, probably in the nursery. Her dad helps carry her bags up the stairs and opens one of the rooms. It’s a small space, with a twin bed and bureau and not much else. But the back of the room has a balcony, facing the beach outside.

“You have the best view,” her dad says, setting down her things.

Clarke smiles. “It’s perfect. Thanks.”

Her dad beams back, the crinkles appearing around his eyes. In that instant, she forgets about her anger, her resentment, everything but the fact that her dad is here in front of her. Clarke wants to tell him about her fall classes. Talk about Wells and his dad, Thelonius, one of her dad’s oldest friends. Show him her drawings, all the skills she’s picked up.

Then, it all shatters when her dad says, “I better get back to work. I’ll catch up with you at dinner, all right?”

“Oh.” Clarke glances at her watch, a gift from him for her 16th birthday. It’s 12:50. “Okay.”

Her dad flashes another smile and ducks out of the door. When he’s gone, Clarke peers around at the sparse space. Now seems a good a time as any to catch up on the sleep she lost from her early morning.

With the waves lulling her from outside, Clarke is under as soon as her eyes shut. 

 

* * *

 

When Clarke wakes up, it’s six-thirty and the house is quiet. She goes looking for her dad in the room she faintly remembers as his office. When she knocks, he calls for her to come in.

Her dad is sitting behind his desk, the wooden surface overtaken by journals and messy papers in between his two computer monitors. He’s typing away, not looking away from the screen.

Clarke hovers in the doorway. “Dad?”

“Hmm?”

“Should we start dinner or something?”

His eyes flit up to her briefly. Food seems like a foreign concept when he’s in his workspace. Clarke recognizes the signs from her mother as well or when she’s buried in books and notes, studying. They disappear from the world.

“It’s dinner time, already?” He blinks owlishly. “I think Stella was preparing something.”  

There are unmistakably cries echoing from behind one of the doors. That girl can really scream. “She seems busy with the baby.”

Her dad finally pauses. “Oh. Well, if you’re hungry, there’s a great burger joint at the boardwalk. The onion rings are legendary.”

“Perfect. Should I ask if Stella wants anything?”

“Absolutely.” Her dad reaches for his wallet and pulls out two $20 bills. “I’ll take a cheeseburger and some of those onion rings. Thanks, kiddo.”

Clarke’s brows furrow. It takes a moment to click and then frustration laps at her veins, like licks of crackling fire. He isn’t going to join her. She drove 5 hours to see him and he’s dispatching her for food.

She grabs the money out of his hand and walks out without another word, yanking the door shut behind her. Before she finds Stella, Clarke has to calm herself down. She tries to imagine Wells’ advise if he was here, always rational and coming from a place of understanding.

_It’s been two years, Clarke. Give him time. He has another life here and he invited you to be part of it. You’ll reconnect and find your rhythm soon._

Clarke nods to herself. They have nothing but time this summer. He won’t always be this busy. With new resolve, she heads to the nursery, the pink-and-brown room beside hers where she can hear the crying behind the door.

Clarke doesn’t bother knocking, just pokes her head in. Stella is trying, unsuccessfully, to rock the screaming baby in her arms. “Hi,” Clarke shouts to be heard. “I’m getting dinner. Do you want anything?”

“Dinner?” Stella repeats. She stares blankly at Clarke before her eyes squeeze shut. “Oh my god, Clarke. I was going to make you something for your first night here. I’m so sorry.”

Hurriedly, Clarke waves off her apology before there’s a repeat of the waterworks. “It’s fine. Dad says there’s a great burger place, so. Do you want anything?”

Stella shakes her head, too frazzled to think about it. “I’ll have whatever you’re having. Thank you, Clarke.”

“No problem.”

Outside the house, the night is thankfully quiet as Clarke heads into town. She doesn’t mind walking, letting the cool air clear her head. The neighborhood isn’t much different from her own back in Arkadia, a suburban area of kids and families, until she reaches the business district

There’s a long boardwalk lined by various shops and businesses: a frozen-yogurt joint, a standard pizzeria, the town cinema, a beach store selling swimming equipment and tacky souvenirs. About halfway down, Clarke comes across Primrose, Stella’s boutique.

The store is easy to spot from its bright orange awning. Taped to the front door is a banner that reads: IT’S A GIRL! THISBE CAROLINE GRIFFIN, 6 LBS 15 OZ. Clarke figures it must be a small town thing, announcing the birth of a local’s baby to the population.

Inside the store are racks of clothing, bikinis, sundresses, a makeup and body lotion section, and a selection of sandals and heels. At the register is a pretty, dark-haired girl in a sundress examining her nails as she chats into her cell phone. Still open, but not busy.

Up ahead, Clarke sees the burger joint. THE DROPSHIP CAFÉ _._ Below the sign, there’s an advertisement for the best onion rings on the beach. She heads straight towards it, having to pass a group of guys standing in front of a bike shop.

“The thing is,” one of them is saying, a skinny brunette wearing goggles on top of his head, “the name needs a punch. A wow factor. I’m not feeling it.”

“It’s just a name,” another guy drawls, with his back to her. “It announces itself and serves it purpose. Which is to tell people—we sell bikes here. That’s it.”

“You’re severely lacking imagination, my friend. A name is _everything_ ,” Goggles exclaims with dramatic flourish. He nudges the shorter guy beside him. “Tell him, Monty.”

Monty bobs his head in agreement. “It’s like, a name is a first impression, you know? It either makes an impact or it doesn’t. Everything our demographic—i.e. the _customers_ —needs to know is in that sign.”

Goggles snaps his fingers. “Ex-act-ly.”

Clarke has to wind around them in order to reach the Dropship Café. As she does, the third guy turns and their eyes suddenly meet. He has long dark hair framing his face and shines a broad, confident smile at her.

“Whatever,” he drawls, his brown eyes locked on Clarke’s. “I just saw the hottest girl in the Valley walk by.”

Goggles snorts behind her. “Oh, Jesus. Keep in your pants, Collins.” His friend laughs as well.

Clarke’s cheeks flush hot, but she keeps walking, staring determinedly ahead. She can feel his gaze still on her, like a lazar, as the distance increases between them.

“Just stating the obvious,” he calls out. “You could say thank you, you know!”

At that, Clarke rolls her eyes. She almost wants to turn around; say _you’re welcome_ for the privilege of looking at her. As if she _owes_ him something for leering at her. But it’s best not to encourage him in any way. She isn’t here for that.

The Dropship Café is crowded and not at all what she imagined. The décor is clearly meant to resemble a spaceship of some kind. The ceiling and walls are pitch black, illuminated by blinking white lights. Stars, she guesses. The booths and tables pop out in bright red.

As she approaches the counter to order, Clarke sees the bar is made to resemble a spaceship dashboard.  The menu advertises things like a Blue Moon Burger and Out-of-This-World Onion Rings. It’s clever, she has to admit.

Clarke places her order and is out in fifteen minutes. On the boardwalk, she gets a gorgeous view of the setting sun, smears of orange and pink across the sky. She stares at the sunset and not at the people in front of the bike shop when she passes by it. The guy called Collins is still there, now talking to a girl with soft blonde waves, wearing heart-shaped sunglasses.

“Hey,” he calls to Clarke again. “If you’re looking for something to do tonight, there’s a bonfire at the Tip.”

 _Do_ you _, you mean?_ She thinks, not saying a word. When she glances in the corner of her eye, the girl is looking at her, a sour expression on her face. _Awesome._

“Ah, she’s a heartbreaker!” He says, laughing. “Just keep it in mind. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Clarke makes it back to the house and starts setting up dinner at the kitchen table. Her dad doesn’t take long to wander in. “I thought I smelled onion rings. This looks great, kiddo.”

According to her dad, Stella is _still_ upstairs with Thisbe. Clarke decides to take a plate to her once she finishes eating. At the top of the stairs she can hear the baby and her heart twists in sympathy, both for the kid and Stella. Motherhood is looking like a nightmare.

Clarke cracks open the door, finding Stella in the rocking chair. Her eyes are closed, but they open at her voice. “Here, I brought you dinner. You should eat something, Stella.”

Her stepmother’s expression pinches. “Thank you, Clarke.”

She sets the plate down on the bureau. Stella keeps rocking, back and forth, although it’s doing nothing to disrupt Thisbe’s crying. Clarke lingers. She feels bad just _leaving_ her there with a screaming infant.

Stella looks up at her and releases a deep breath. “I don’t know what to do. She’s fed, she’s changed…what am I doing wrong?”

Clarke fiddles with the watch around her wrist. “She’s probably just colicky.”

That’s what her mother always said about _her_ , anyway. Screaming her lungs out at every opportunity. Clarke demanded to be heard, her mom claimed. There was nothing she could do to stop it.

Stella glances from her to the baby helplessly. “But what does that _mean_ exactly? I’m doing everything I can…”

She trails off, her voice choking up again. Clarke’s eyes widen in alarm. She thinks about getting her dad. Surely, he’s better suited for stuff like this. He should be up here. Just as she thinks this, Stella sighs.

“Clarke, I’m sorry.” She blinks away the wetness in her eyes and seems to pull together. Her voice turns falsely bright. “You’re young! You should be out having fun. There’s this place called the Tip, where the girls at my shop hang out at night. You should go check it out.”

Her stepmother forces a feeble smile. “It’s better than being around this, right?”

That’s debatable. Clarke is as good at socializing and partying as she is at baby-sitting. But Stella is right about it being what young people do. “Maybe I will.”

Stella nods. There’s a shine of relief in her eyes. “Thank you for the food. I really appreciate it.”

Clarke nods. It seems like they’re done here, so she goes back to her room. She unpacks her clothes and the books she brought, finding places for everything. Her e-mail is lacking life, other than a brief message from Wells detailing his tour of Italy so far. She writes out a reply and shares about coming to Shallow Valley, thinking he’ll be proud of her for branching out. Or something like it.

She tries drawing for a while, remembering the sunset over the boardwalk. Her concentration spills through her fingers at Thisbe’s cries heard through the walls. It’s only 9 at night when Clarke finally cracks. She takes her phone and a jacket and goes for a walk.

Shallow Valley isn’t familiar to her, so Clarke is just exploring for a while. She isn’t planning to go to the Tip, considering she has no clue what or where that is. She roams the boardwalk again, even more lively than before with the town’s night scene. Then Clarke’s feet take her in the opposite direction, back toward the house and then continuing.

Eventually, Clarke stumbles upon the place. The parked cars clue her in, as well as lights and noise in the distance. The Tip is apparently located through a swath of beach grass and behind some dunes, opening up into a peninsula.

Clarke thinks of Wells, the experiences she’s never let herself have, and walks in.

She sees the big firepit first, the blaze bright on the beach. There are people her age everywhere, gathered on makeshift benches of driftwood and sitting in the bed of trucks, while others stand around talking. Most are sipping from plastic cups and Clarke spots the beer keg set in the back of one of the trucks.

It’s not like this is her first party. She’s been to a handful, but she’s always had Wells to ease the awkwardness she’s felt or someone else, like Lexa, to make her feel like she belonged.

With a jolt, Clarke realizes she’s alone. Maybe for the first time in her life, she’s on her own.

The thought is terrifying and exhilarating all at once. The rush she didn’t know she needed, like being handed her diploma. The world is wide open and hers for the taking, if she has the guts. She _wants_ to. She isn’t a bystander in her own story. Not anymore.

Clarke’s eyes roam across the bonfire, until they land on who she’s looking for. The confident boy, long surfer hair, Collins. He’s talking to people, gesturing wildly. Clarke doesn’t let it deter her.

She cuts a path straight towards him. The blonde girl sees her coming first, eyes widening. It makes him turn and a wide grin stretches his face when he recognizes her.

“Heartbreaker,” he greets her. “You made it.”

Clarke tosses her hair over her shoulder. Fake it til you make it. She can do this. “Get me a drink?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He steps closer, offering her his arm and Clarke takes it.

“I’m Finn,” he says into her ear as they walk to the keg.

Clarke looks at him, the warm bonfire flickering light over his features. He _is_ cute. She’s got a weak spot for brown eyes.

She smiles. “Clarke.” 

 

* * *

 

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

She feels like an idiot. Maybe because she is one. There’s a reason Clarke isn’t spontaneous. She doesn’t think of herself as a thrill-chaser. There’s a calculated risk for every decision. Still, knowing this doesn’t stop her.

A voice in the back of her heard warned her it was a bad idea. Clarke told it to shut up. As a teenager, it’s her God-given right to indulge in bad ideas. So when Finn leans in, whispering in her ear about finding somewhere private to _talk_ , she agrees. 

When Clarke sits up, shaking sand out of her hair, Finn’s hand catches her wrist. “When can I see you again?”

She looks down at him, still languidly laid back on the blanket. They’re hidden from view and the bonfire’s light behind the dunes, but she doesn’t miss the hopeful gleam in his eyes. A compliment, she thinks, however unwanted.

“I’ll be around,” Clarke murmurs. She lightly shakes out of his grip.

Finn laughs lowly behind her as Clarke turns her back, re-clasping her bra. “I knew you were a tease, Clarke. Total ice queen.”

Clarke stiffens. _I’m not like that_. She doesn’t bother arguing. This guy knows nothing about her. Not even her last name.

His little estimation niggles at her mind, though. Because that’s what people have always said about her mother. Dr. Abby Griffin, the ball-buster, the Ice Queen. That title isn’t meant as a compliment. Is she like that too?

“Don’t worry,” Finn lilts. “It’s hot.”

He’s a bigger idiot than she is.

Clarke finishes redressing and snatches her shoes. She cuts through the dunes, not wanting to step foot back in the party. People saw her leave with Finn. She can just imagine what they think about her. _The new girl is easy_. _Slut._

It doesn’t matter. She repeats it to herself all the way home. Well, she got an experience. She hooked-up with a complete stranger and felt nothing. Nothing, except like she was trying to wear a costume that doesn’t fit. She was playing pretend and it showed. If _this_ is what she missed out on in high school, she didn’t miss anything.

Clarke is so consumed by this dumb mistake; she doesn’t realize there’s someone in front of her until they collide.

She stumbles back, startled. A tall guy stares back at her, wearing a grey hoodie over his head. They both gape at each other, as if not expecting to see anyone else on the street. Right in front of her dad’s house, she certainly isn’t.

She catches his face in the dim street lighting. _Haunted_ , is the first words she thinks about his intense, dark eyes. Then, _familiar_.

Which is bizarre, because she doesn’t know anyone in this town. But she recognizes him somehow. The freckles, the taut jaw, curls falling into his eyes. It puzzles her. _Who are you?_

“Sorry,” Clarke says, a beat late. “Long night.”

He regards her silently. She thinks he won’t respond, until his voice comes, a husky rumble. “Aren’t they all.”

He continues past her, sliding his hands into his pockets. Clarke watches him melt into the shadows. She can’t help but feel like she just saw a ghost drifting through the streets.


	2. two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely comments and kudos! Things start to pick up with this chapter, so I'm excited :-) 
> 
> Enjoy!

Her dad is pouring himself a cup of coffee when Clarke staggers downstairs well past noon, rubbing sleep out of her eyes.

“Morning,” he chuckles. “And what time did you hit the hay last night?”

Clarke shrugs, grabbing a mug for herself when he steps aside. She can’t be expected to hold a conversation until she’s had her caffeine fix.

“I got home at 3, I think.”

She didn’t actually fall asleep until after 5 am, reading her Econ 101 book until her eyes burned. The words didn’t stick in her brain, but she needed to do _something_ to distract herself from the bonfire.

Her dad seems to be on his way out the door, sealing the lid on his travel mug. A pulse of panic flares in her chest. She doesn’t want him to go yet. Who knows when they’ll be alone like this again? The kitchen is quiet, with just the two of them.

Clarke blurts the first thing she can think of. “Something weird happened last night.”

That grabs his attention. Her dad looks back at her sitting at the table, his brow wrinkling in concern. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” Clarke exhales. She didn’t mean to worry him. “I’m fine. It’s just, when I get home, I ran into this guy right outside. He was skulking around at like, 3am. It was weird.”

His haunted eyes flash in her mind again. Clarke can’t forget the look in them, plaguing her more than the unwanted memory of Finn’s hands on her skin. And then there’s the fact that Clarke can’t place him despite being sure that they’ve met before. Maybe if she finds out who he is she can put the mystery to bed.

Her dad cocks his head. “You two sound like ships in the night.”

Clarke frowns, which makes him chuckle again. Okay, maybe he has a point. She can’t judge _him_ for wandering in the middle of the night when she was doing the same thing.

“What did he look like?”

Clarke describes the brief glimpse she got of him. She’s good with faces and even then, his was memorable. Hauntingly beautiful. Her dad nods along to her description, his concern shifting back to an amused smile.

“Bellamy Blake,” he says. “That’s Aurora’s boy. The Blakes live right next door. I’m sure he didn’t mean to frighten you, kiddo.”

Clarke is disappointed the name doesn’t ring a bell for her. If they’re neighbors, it is possible she’s seen him around. Still, her curiosity isn’t satisfied.

“He didn’t,” Clarke replies firmly. Her eyes raise to his from staring into her coffee. “You know him?”

“Well enough,” her dad shrugs. “He’s helped me out around the house. Cutting the grass, fixing the leaks in our roof. Good kid. You should befriend him.”

_Right_. Something tells her Bellamy Blake isn’t looking to make friends.

Her dad drops a kiss onto her forehead and takes off to campus for the day.  He works at Shallow Valley’s local college as an Ethics and Moral Philosophy professor. As her mom would say, it’s a far cry from the prestige of the University of Arkadia. But at least this scholarly ground didn’t have to be shared with people like Marcus Kane. Or Abby Griffin.

Clarke finishes off the rest of her coffee. The afternoon looks sunny and clear outside, so she showers quickly and changes into her beachwear.

When Clarke slips past the nursery, she can hear the sounds of the wave machine going. The rest of the house is still and mercifully quiet. It’s already shaping up to be a better day than yesterday.

 

* * *

 

Clarke spends a few hours at the beach, reading under an umbrella and enjoying the sounds of real waves lapping up against the shore. She sends Wells a snap of the ocean, just for proof that she’s actually there. He answers back: _hope you don’t melt ;)_

After a while, Clarke is in desperate need of a refreshment. She heads up the boardwalk and steps into the cool, dark interior of the Dropship Café. It’s just as crowded as the day before with what she imagines are tourists, like her, and locals seeking refuge from the hot sun.

The menu offers a wide selection of milkshakes. The petite girl behind the counter, named Fox, recommends a Milky Way shake so Clarke orders that.

She debates whether or not to call Stella and offer to bring her something. Her stepmother is a grown woman. She can feed herself. But then Clarke remembers the way Stella suggested she go to the bonfire, actually caring about Clarke having fun while she herself was so clearly miserable.

Clarke sighs, about the reach for her phone. That’s when a loud, angry voice erupts behind her. “HEY!”

She looks on instinct, not even thinking about it. But then Clarke realizes there’s a girl in a red tank top storming up to her, her brown ponytail whipping behind her. Clarke glances behind her, as if to find someone else is her target. But no. The girl’s wild eyes, almost spitting fire, are fixated on only Clarke.

_What now?_

The girl doesn’t stop until she’s practically in Clarke’s face. “ _You_ ,” she snarls.

Clarke blinks. “Do I know you?”

“Oh,” the girl’s eyes narrow into slits. “You’re gonna _wish_ you never met me!”

Clarke’s lips part open. Her mind is a blank slate. “I— “

“ _You’re_ the girl that screwed Finn at the bonfire last night,” she finishes, her voice swelling into an accusatory shout. “Isn’t that right?”

_Shit_. So it is going around. Well, if the whole fucking town didn’t know yet, they will _now._ It’s like the girl’s voice bounces throughout the café and suddenly people are gawking at them. Clarke’s dumb mistake, put on display.

She exhales sharply, trying to find her voice. “Look. It meant nothing.”

The girl’s nostrils flare. _This_ is the wrong thing to say. Clarke wishes she could jump behind the counter or melt through the floor, just to escape this conversation. What the hell had she stumbled into? It wasn’t even good sex. Definitely not worth this drama.

“ _Nothing_?” She repeats at full volume. “You hook-up with the love of my life, my only _family_ , and it means nothing to you?”

Clarke’s eyes flit to the exit doors. She seriously considers walking away. What is she supposed to say to this girl? It’s Finn’s fault if he has a girlfriend and didn’t mention it. Not hers.

But it’s too late for that. The girl’s glare locks on the milkshake set by Clarke’s elbow and her hand darts out, quick as lighting. Before Clarke can blink, there’s a wave of chocolate, caramel and whip cream crashing into her face, soaking the front of her beach wrap.

Clarke freezes. The world rocks to a standstill. It’s that shocking. This girl just threw a fucking milkshake at her. How is this her life right now?

She has to blink the sticky substance out of her eyes. When her vision clears, she sees the girl’s face. Not smug or even angry anymore. She looks…heartbroken. Then she’s stomping away from Clarke, out the door and she is left standing there, dripping onto the floor.

For a minute she just stands there, stunned. The customers in booths and surrounding tables are staring. She can hear their whispers like roaring in her ears and her face flames with heat. She needs to leave, now, but her feet won’t take a single step.

Then someone appears beside her, gripping her arm. “Come on.”

Clarke’s head whips up. She doesn’t know who she expected to come to her rescue, but Bellamy Blake is the last person on that list.

And yet there he is, now in a blue T-shirt and jeans. His hand around her arm is gentle but firm as it tugs her forward, the tether pulling her away from the mortifying scene. Clarke gapes up at him, her jaw probably still hanging.

It’s like she’s underwater, watching from a distance as Bellamy growls over his shoulder at the spectators, “Show’s over! Mind your damn business.”

He leads her to the back of the café into a storage closet. Once the door shuts behind them, Bellamy flicks on the light and he’s on the move as she stares, arms hanging limply at her sides. He returns to her with a green T-shirt in hand, bearing the Dropship Café logo.

Clarke swallows. “Are you stealing merchandise?”

His lips twitch, like he might smile. “Borrowing it. If you don’t bring it back, I’ll let them know who’s to blame.”

He might be joking, or not. His deadpan expression makes it hard to tell. And Clarke is still too busy processing the scene before to even smile. She takes the shirt from his outstretched hand.

Then there’s just looking at each other like last night in a stretch of silence until she clears her throat. “I have to change.”

His eyes widen. “Oh. Right.”

He turns his back, giving her privacy as Clarke removes the stained beach wrap. She changes into the T-shirt over her jean shorts, which fits surprisingly well. Clarke uses her towel to wipe up the milkshake mess on her face before she gives him the okay to turn back.

Clarke’s eyes study him, this strange enigma of a boy. “Why did you help me?”

Bellamy shrugs his shoulders, as if his kindness is no big deal. “You looked like you needed it.”

She did. Her throat tightens with gratitude she doesn’t know how to express. “Thank you, for that. I probably would have stood there all day like an idiot.”

“Despite what you may think,” he murmurs in that deep voice, “not everyone in this town is an asshole.”

She snorts. “Just the people I interact with, apparently.”

“Just steer clear from Collins and you’ll be fine.”

Clarke nods. She plans to. Hearing him mention Finn by name confirms that he knows the story too. “That girl…”

“Raven,” he answers. A sigh blows past his lips. “I wish I could say her bark is worse than her bite, but, well. Raven _is_ all bite.”

Bellamy knows her well, then. Probably knows both of them. Clarke shifts her weight uncomfortably. She feels the need to explain herself. “Look, I didn’t know he was with someone. And it meant—”

She’s cut off by Bellamy raising his hand. “None of my business. You wanna thank me? Leave me out of the petty high school drama.”     

Clarke’s lips quirk, smiling despite herself. She gets that, like he wouldn’t believe. “I wish someone would leave _me_ out of the drama.”

Bellamy’s dark eyes bore into hers. His expression gives nothing away, but that intensity holds her still. “I get the impression that trouble follows you around, Princess.”

_Princess._ That’s when it comes back to her.

“You,” she gasps.

Out of everyone in this tacky, godforsaken small town, Clarke remembers Bellamy Blake.

They actually met two years ago when Clarke drove up from Arkadia to visit her dad in his new house. She drove straight from school with her bags in the car, hoping to avoid her mother talking her out of visiting at all. Abby thought it was a mistake, but Clarke wasn’t ready to write her dad out of her life completely.

_One last try_ , she told herself. Everyone deserved a second chance.

Once she arrived in Shallow Valley, Clarke had to stop for gas. She was exhausted from the long drive, anxious about seeing her dad again since he moved away. The last thing Clarke needed was some asshole stranger casting judgment on her.

So Clarke, at sixteen, maybe isn’t the best driver in the world. As she’s pulling away after filling up her tank, it’s possible that she was distracted and doesn’t see the truck behind her until she bumped right into it.

Two years later, Clarke maintains that the miniscule scratch could have come from _anything_ , okay? Bellamy Blake had no proof it was Clarke that was responsible.

Of course, that doesn’t stop him from jumping out of his car and biting her head off.

“Are you kidding me?” The guy sneered at her, his dark brown eyes blazing like hellfire. “Too busy staring at your reflection to check your mirrors, Princess?”

Clarke made the fatal mistake of climbing out to inspect the damage. Because Bellamy took one look at her, mainly the white gold Rolex on her wrist, and decided that she was a privileged brat not to be trusted.  

Clarke bristled at his attitude, her apology dying on her tongue. “It was an accident, okay? I didn’t see you.”

“Clearly,” he snapped.

Her eyes rolled at his scathing tone. Clarke rounded her car to see for herself what all the fuss was about. What she found was his worn, red Ford truck has seen its fair share of bumps and bruises. There was a thin line across the bottom, but the duct tape wrapped around his side mirror was far more offensive.

Clarke scoffed as she straightened up and faced him. “Seriously? That duct tape is such an eyesore, no one’s going to notice a tiny scratch.”

A biting laugh escaped the guy. A part of her stupid, hormonal brain couldn’t help but notice how attractive he was. Dark messy curls, warm golden-brown skin, freckles dusted across his nose and cheeks. He’d be even prettier if he lost the snarl on his lips.

“That’s perfect,” he snarled. “Are you really such a snob you’re going to insult my car instead of apologizing for hitting me?”

Where did this guy get off on calling her a snob? Like he had any right to judge her.

Clarke crossed her arms over her chest, staring him down. “First of all, you don’t know _anything_ about me. Second of all, you can’t prove that scratch came from me.”

He threw his hands up in exasperation, his voice escalating to a shout. “I _just_ saw you do it! Newsflash, Princess, you’re not so innocent.”

“Stop calling me that,” Clarke hissed.

The guy gestured at her from head to toe, as if that was supposed to mean something. Then he gestured to her car—her shiny, silver Lexus SUV.

His smirk was smug and annoying, like the rest of him. She itched to smack it off his pretty face. “If the carriage fits.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

Clarke turned back to her car. She could feel the stranger’s glare burning into her back as she quickly rooted through her purse. At last, she found her eyeliner pencil and marched back over to him.

He lifted an eyebrow at her. His skepticism morphed into disbelief when Clarke snatched his arm and scribbled her cell phone number across his skin.

“What the hell are you doing?” His husky voice sounded even deeper up close and she fought back a shiver.

The angry stranger’s sexiness was definitely cancelled out by being a total dick.

“This is my number.” Clarke stepped back once she was done writing, glaring up at him. “If you want to press charges, contact me. I’ll reimburse you the 50 cents for damages.”

“Fuck you,” the guy called out after her, but it sounded like he was smiling despite himself.

Clarke climbed back into her car and drove off. She certainly didn’t expect to hear from Bellamy Blake or ever seen him again. He was just an angry guy in a gas station lot. She didn’t have a name to the attractive face, not then.

The trip was cut short when Clarke realized her dad didn’t invite her to be a part of his life here. No, it was an ambush for Clarke to meet his fiancé. It didn’t matter how happy and in love her dad claimed to be. That woman could never replace her mother.

Clarke bailed after just two days. She couldn’t spend another minute trapped with her dad and Stella. She returned home, having to face her mother’s self-righteousness and _I told you so’s_ for twice as long. Abby was proved right. She shouldn’t have gone, shouldn’t have expected any better from the man that _left_ them.

In the present, Clarke’s eyes widen with realization. “You remember me?”

Bellamy shrugs. “Hard to forget a girl that writes her number on my body.”

The contrast in him compared to two years ago baffles her. It’s like a completely different person from the one that yelled at her in a gas station lot. She remembers that Bellamy like it’s burned into her subconscious—volatile, expressive, nearly vibrating with life in every heated gesture and rumble of his voice.

_This_ guy seems like a shell of that person. Like all of his color has been stripped away. His voice is flat, his expressions shuttered. She almost believes he could fade away at any moment, a phantom disappearing into the shadows.

Something clearly changed with him in those two years. Something life-altering. Even as an outside observer, Clarke can see that. It gives her pause, makes her re-think telling him off this time.

“I’m sorry.” The words blurt out of her mouth on their own agenda. “About your car. I had some family drama of my own and I…took it out on you.”

If Bellamy is surprised by her late apology or even appreciative, he hides it well. He just nods. Doesn’t pry about her attitude that day. They let it go, just like that.

“I’m Jake Griffin’s daughter,” she introduces herself, officially. “Clarke. He said you guys live next door.”

His jaw ticks with tension, like he’s waiting for her to bring up running into him last night. Curiosity stirs within her, but she won’t. He doesn’t owe her an explanation about anything, same as she doesn’t owe him one.

“Looks like we’ll be seeing each other around,” Clarke says.

“Looks like it.”

 

* * *

 

“So,” her mother says, “tell me _everything_.”

For some reason, this request makes Clarke wince. The full report of the past four days she’s been in Shallow Valley isn’t what she wants to broadcast to _anyone_ , let alone her mom.

Clarke has (briefly) gone to a bonfire party, slept with the wrong person, had a drink thrown at her while being confronted by a stranger, and has seen more of Stella than she ever wanted to. It’s been more exciting than staying home, but she’s not sure if that’s an improvement or not.

She’s spoken to her dad—the person she came here to _see_ —a total of, oh, three hours. He’s either locked in his office, working on his new book, or en route to campus for the day or in his room, sleeping. She and her dad are the actual ships in the night, never seeming to cross paths for more than a few minutes.

It sucks. Which is worse though, is that while her dad is almost nonexistent, Stella is _everywhere_. Clarke can’t escape her.

Stella is probably lonely, having only the baby for company. But Clarke isn’t. She _likes_ being alone, she’s accustomed to it. Her bedroom has become a fortress, the only place she is safe from Stella’s over-friendliness and attempts to rope her into conversation.

Clarke could tell her mom this. It’s what she wants to hear—her dad is consumed with work, no time for his wife or daughter. Same old. But admitting it out loud makes Clarke feel like a failure.

“Well,” she starts. “It’s beautiful here. I missed the beach at home. And the sunsets on the boardwalk are incredible.”

“I’m sure it is,” her mother replies. “Let’s skip over the imagery. How is your father? How’s his work going?”

Clarke fiddles with the charcoal spread on the bed beside her, next to her open sketchbook. “Um, he’s writing a lot. He’s in his office almost all day, every day.”

Her mother hums. “Is that right?”

“Yeah,” she says. “He says he’s almost done with the book. Just some tightening up to do.”

“Tightening up that takes all day, every day.” Scorn virtually radiates from the phone line. _Ouch_. “What about the baby? Is he helping Stella with her?”

Clarke hesitates. Her mother can likely tell. She’s like a bloodhound that way, sniffing out exactly what Clarke wants to keep to herself. “He does. But, well, Stella seems determined to do it on her own.”

“Oh, please,” her mother scoffs. “Caring for a newborn requires _two_ attentive parents, at the very least. Stella is probably beside herself. Your father is no help, I imagine.”

Clarke vaguely fills in some shading on her sketch, not really listening. She’s learned to tune her mom out when she gets going on her rants about how unhelpful and absent her father was during the “hard times” their family faced. Everything Clarke reports, her mother will twist it around just so she can say _you see, I was right all along. He hasn’t changed._

Maybe that was true for her mom, in their marriage. But Clarke doesn’t see it that way. Before he left, her dad was _wonderful_. He was always there when she needed him. The person she could talk to or laugh with about anything at all. He was her best friend.

People _do_ change. Clarke has seen proof of it all around her. Even the ones you think you know inside and out, your own family, can twist on a dime and show you a different face.

Clarke waits for her mother’s tirade to end and then asks, “So how are you doing?”

“Me?” Her mom sighs. “Oh, I haven’t had time to _breathe_ as of late. I’ve been asked to head up the committee rewriting the English core courses for next year, with all the attendant drama that will entail. My trip to Standard is coming up, which still needs preparation. And, of course, entirely too much dissertations that cannot be completed without a large amount of hand-handling.”

“Sound like a busy summer,” she mutters.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” She clicks her tongue. “I have half a mind to decamp to the coast, like you, and spend my days on the beach without a care in the world.”

_Yep_. Clarke smirks humorlessly to herself. _That’s me exactly._

“Well, mom, I have to go.” Clarke shuts her sketchbook and stands from the bed, stretching. “The beach is calling my name.”

Another sigh. Her mom sees through her, no matter how many iron walls she erects between them. “I’m sorry, Clarke. I do hope you get to see more of your father while you’re there.”

_Me too_. “I’ll call you later,” she promises and they say their goodbyes.

Stella is—surprise, surprise—in the kitchen when Clarke comes downstairs, in search of coffee. She’s only been up for an hour, her mother having caught her on the phone just after Clarke emerged from the shower.

Clarke yawns as she flips the coffee maker on. The sky is looking bleak outside, a flat gray. She’ll stay in for a while, crack open some of her textbooks. Be productive instead of laying around on the beach.

Stella is cooing nonsense at Thisbe as she prepares her bottle. The baby talk _might_ be worse than the white-noise machine. Clarke is getting better at tuning both out. Then Stella’s phone rings and her babble is cut short as she answers it.

“Hello? Oh, Octavia, hi. Yes, I’ve been wondering if that shipment came in…” Stella trails off, listening for a moment. “No, that can’t be right.”

Clarke goes about adding in cream and sugar. When she glances over, she finds the baby looking at her from Stella’s arms. Watching her with clear blue eyes, the same as her own.

Her lips curve into a smile automatically. Okay, Thisbe is adorable, when she’s not screaming bloody murder. Clarke isn’t that heartless, she can see that.

“Well, it should be in the office, right in the left-hand drawer. It’s not? Huh. Let me think…” Stella peers around the kitchen, then throws a hand over her mouth. “Oh no. It’s here, I see it by the door. God, how did that happen? No, I’ll bring it now. I’ll just pop Thisbe in her stroller.”

The girl on the other line speaks, her voice sounding high and shrill. Clarke winces, taking a sip of hot coffee. Are all the women in this town over-emotional?

“Okay.” Stella looks at her watch. “Look, I’ll have to feed the baby before we can go anyway. Just tell the delivery guy…Is there enough cash in the drawer? Check it for me, Octavia.” A pause, in which Thisbe starts fussing right on schedule. Stella sighs. “All right. No, we’ll come right now. Just hold right. Okay, bye.”

She hangs up, then crosses the kitchen to the bottom of the stairs, jiggling the baby as she goes. “Jake?” she calls. “Honey?”

“Yes?” Her dad’s voice answers, sounding muffled.

“Do you think you can feed Thisbe for me? I have to run the checkbook down to the store.”

“Now?”

Thisbe chooses this moment to cry out-right. Stella has to shout to be heard. “Yes, she needs her bottle. I need to go to the store because I left the checkbook here and I thought they could cover this COD charge with cash but there isn’t enough…”

_Too much information_ , Clarke thinks, swallowing another mouthful of coffee. Why does she have to make everything so complicated?

“Sweetheart, I’m not really at a good stopping-point,” her dad replies. “Can’t it wait another twenty minutes?”

Thisbe howls in Stella’s arms, answering the question herself. “Um. I don’t think—”

“I’ll take it down there,” Clarke offers, pushing her chair back. Stella’s head turns toward her, surprised. Not as much as Clarke is herself for saying the words. “I’m not doing anything right now.”

Stella hesitates. “Are you sure? Clarke, I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“You’re not,” Clarke says, firm.

She’s practically doing Clarke a favor, giving her a reason to escape the crying baby. And it’s the least she can do, watching her stepmother so frazzled right in front of her.

“She’s offering, Stells.” Her dad’s voice carries from his office. “Don’t be a martyr.”

Sound advise, which Clarke should have taken herself. She soon realizes this ten minutes later when she’s entering the Primrose shop.

The first thing Clarke sees is the dark-haired girl at the register again, with the glittery nail polish. It glints off her manicured fingers as she gestures expressively, conversing with two other girls.

“Take it as a blessing in disguise. You’re free of him. Now, you can move on to bigger and better things. Which is exactly what you deserve, hun.”

Clarke recognizes the other faces. The blonde girl she saw on the boardwalk and again at the bonfire. And beside her is Raven.

_Son of a bitch_. Clarke bites her lip to keep from swearing out loud. _This fucking small town._

You’d think it can’t be worse, seeing her again. But it is, because it doesn’t take Clarke long to realize she just walked into a conversation about _her_. Or, her and Finn Collins.

Clarke steels her spine and steps forward. She came here with a job to do. Get in, get out. And Raven can only intimidate her if Clarke lets her.

Three pairs of eyes swivel towards her. Raven and her blonde friend react immediately, the former’s expression flashing from shock into something hard and unreadable.

“What are you doing here?” Raven demands.

Clarke keeps her voice level, her face carefully blank. Inside, her heart races. “Stella sent me. I have the checkbook for Octavia.”

“I’m Octavia,” the brunette girl says. She's even prettier up close, a faint dusting of freckles across her nose. Her green eyes narrow at Clarke. “Who are you?”

What she really wants to know if why are her friends glaring at her like she’s brazenly wearing a scarlet letter. What did she do? Why is the vibe in the store so tense, the air frigid between her and Raven?

But Clarke isn’t getting into this again. “I’m Stella’s stepdaughter. Clarke.”

“Oh,” Octavia gasps. “Stella had her baby right? Thisbe. I _love_ her name! Obviously I'm a fan, I mean, my mom named me after the Roman Emperor Augustus's sister.  You don't hear about a lot of Octavia’s, which is cool. Aww, I can’t wait to meet her—”

“O.” Her excited chatter is cut off by the blonde girl, touching her arm. She widens her hazel eyes at Octavia meaningfully.

_Stop playing nice with the enemy_ , that look says.

“What?” Octavia stares from her to Raven. “Will someone _please_ clue me in here?”

Clarke cracks the awkward silence. “Allow me. I’m the girl that hooked-up with Finn. I paid for it. Here.” She slaps the checkbook in Octavia’s hand and turns on her heel to leave.

“Clarke, wait!”

She doesn’t have to stop. She knows this, but evidently she really is a martyr. Her steps slow and Clarke turns back, eyebrows raised.

Raven stares back at her for a long moment. It seems to pain her if her grimace is anything to go by, but she spits the words out. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

It hangs in the air between them. Thawing out the frost, gradually. Clarke doesn’t jump in or argue her side just yet. She wants to hear the rest.

Raven’s eyes flit somewhere over her shoulder, not able to look directly at her as she pushes the rest out. “I didn’t think—about anything. I just saw red. You were there and it was _easier_ to attack you than…than to hear it from him.”

Clarke knows something about swallowing her pride. It takes a Herculean effort for her too. She appreciates what it costs Raven to make amends with her—the other woman.

“I didn’t know about you,” Clarke says. “He was just there, reasonably cute and I needed someone. But I’d take it back, if I could. Honestly.”

Raven scrutinizes her. It’s unnerving, but it has nothing on Bellamy’s intensity. Clarke can’t help but notice. Then she nods.

“I believe you.”

At those three words, Clarke feels herself deflate. Tensions seeps out of her shoulders. It’s like having a crushing weight off her back, that acknowledgment. She isn’t the other woman. Clarke _never_ wanted to be that person.

She can’t erase it. What happened, happened. But now it actually seems like a possibility for her, for them, to put the whole mess behind them.

“For what it’s worth, Raven,” Clarke finds herself saying, “I think you dodged a bullet.” 

Raven seems taken aback. Almost like she wants to argue, defend Finn. If she considers him family, the impulse must be strong. But it passes and Raven nods again. If she doesn’t accept that she deserves better yet, she’s at least on her way there.

Maybe in the world of girls, this is supposed to be a turning point. Where she and Raven saw beyond their differences and realize how much they have in common after all. The first step in becoming true friends.

But that is a place Clarke doesn’t understand, had never lived in, and has no interest in exploring, even as a tourist. So she walks out the door of the shop, leaving them—as she had many other groups—to say whatever they would about her when she’s gone.

  

* * *

 

Going out to dinner would be so much easier if it was just Clarke and her dad. She feels guilty thinking it, but not much. Adding one—and a half—other people to the equation is just asking for complications.

A whole week in Shallow Valley and she thought they’d get some one-on-one time at this point. Then that evening, her dad emerged from his office and announced they were having a _family_ night. Finally, Clarke thought, until she realized that meant their whole family was having a night out.

But it’s not like Clarke can tell Stella to stay home with the baby, as much as she wants quality time with her dad. She sits on her temper and tries not to let her irritation show.

Stella is on the phone when the three of them finally make it out the door, pushing the stroller in front of her. “But that doesn’t make any _sense_!” she cries. “I did the payroll myself and we had plenty of money in the account. Well…right, of course. The bank would know.”

She sighs to herself. “I’m so sorry, Harper. This is embarrassing. We’re on our way right now. Look, I’ll get cash from the ATM and we’ll sort this mess out on Monday, okay?”

Her dad inhales a deep breath once they’re outside. “Got to love that sea air!” He nudges Clarke’s shoulder. “You don’t get that in Arkadia, do you?”

Clarke smiles. She loves it too, just like him.

“You’re in a good mood,” she notes.

Her dad grins at her, his eyes crinkling in the corners. He has a type of joy that lights up a room and it’s contagious. She can feel her earlier annoyance wilting away. “Well, why wouldn’t I be? I’ve got my beautiful family here, all together. And my work is really hitting its stride. Major progress.”

“What is your new book about exactly?” Clarke can’t help but add, “We haven’t had a chance to talk about it yet.”

Her dad, in his good spirits, doesn’t pick up on her insinuation. He launches into an explanation about his breakthrough, which he centered his book around. He calls it the inspiration for hope and rediscovering the everyday, common good in society.

Clarke has never been interested in moral philosophy like her dad is, but the heart of his work speaks to her. It’s all about finding the good in people, reaching a universal understanding, and sharing in peace.

“That sounds great, Dad,” Clarke says just as Stella hangs up the phone, looking frustrated.

Her dad reaches over to plant a kiss on Stella’s check. “Cheer up, honey. It’s Friday night! Let’s have a good time grabbing some pizza, as a family.”

“Absolutely,” Stella agrees. “But first I need to stop at the store. There’s apparently some problem with the payroll checks. I have no idea what’s going on.”

Her dad shakes his head. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it can be straightened out on Monday. You deserve a stress-free weekend, Stells.”

“Yes, but—” Her phone chimes again and Stella pauses to pick up. “Hello? Octavia, yes, what…No, I know. Head to the ATM down the block, we’ll meet you there. I’m getting to the bottom of this, I promise you.”

“These girls she hires,” her dad mutters to Clarke. “Typical teenagers. It’s always something.”

Clarke nods, like she isn’t a teenager herself. To her parents, she’s never fallen in that category of irresponsible or untrustworthy.

“It’s not _their_ fault,” Stella snaps with startling ferocity. “The checks bounced. I have to do something about this.”

“Call your accountant,” he counters, a note of frustration spilling into his voice as well. “Let him deal with it. This is our family time.”

“He doesn’t handle payroll,” Stella huffs. “That’s _my_ responsibility.”

“Well, it can wait until after we’ve finished dinner—”

“I can’t do that, Jake. It isn’t right. These girls deserve to get paid, on time, and—”

Her dad’s patience snaps. “Look, weren’t _you_ the one who said I wasn’t spending enough time with you and the baby and Clarke? I made time. I have just as many responsibilities, Stella, but our family always comes first.”

“I understand that,” Stella says with forced calm. “But this is my business, Jake.”

“And writing isn’t mine?”

Clarke turns her head away, wishing she was across the boardwalk or back in her room, with walls in between her and them. It’s all exactly the same. The underlying resentment, the tension thick enough to smother the air, even the argument itself. _Family versus responsibility._

This is the fight her parents raged for years. A never-ending battle with no clear victor. Clarke didn’t ask to be around for the reprise. Aren’t her dad and Stella supposed to be happy and crazy in love? Or was history just doomed to repeat itself as another marriage crumbled in front of Clarke’s eyes?

“Fine,” her dad relents when Primrose comes into view, Octavia and who Clarke identifies as Harper standing in front of it. “Do what you have to do. We’ll meet you at the restaurant.”

He takes over pushing Thisbe in her stroller, not bothering to look back as he strides ahead. Stella flashes Clarke an apologetic smile that barely holds up before she rushes over to the girls, her wedge heels clacking against the boardwalk.

Clarke turns away and quickens her steps to catch up with her dad. They settle into a table at Slice of Heaven, the pizzeria. Her stomach rumbles, she’s starved, but it’s difficult to focus on the menu when Thisbe starts hollering shortly after they sit down.

“Oh no, sweet girl,” her dad murmurs, rocking the stroller back and forth. Thisbe keeps wailing. “Well. Clarke, could you…?”

This half-question is left suspended, so she isn’t sure what he’s asking. As the baby’s cries become screams, their table it attracting attention from other customers. Her dad shoots her a panicked look and Clarke realizes he expects _her_ to do something.

Which is ridiculous. Even worse, though, she does.

“I’ll take her outside.” She stands up from the booth. “Why don’t you—”

Her dad nods, gratitude filling his face. “I’ll order for us. Just bring her back in when she’s settled down, okay?”

Clarke doesn’t even recognize herself, pushing a stroller out the door with a fussing baby. If her mom could see her now…No. She doesn’t want to imagine her reaction.

Only a few days in Shallow Valley and she’s been demoted to a baby-sitter. Clarke shakes her head to herself as she wheels Thisbe onto the boardwalk. She finds a bench to sit on, gaping down at the baby beside her.

Thisbe’s face is red and scrunched up as she wails, letting her pain be known the universe. In that moment, Clarke envies her. Her eyes sting as the only outward sign of the frustration and hurt storming inside her chest.

_Stupid_ , she chides herself again. For such a so-called brilliant girl, Clarke is often foolish. Why does she keep hoping when she already knows the outcome? Why is she expecting something different?

Her dad walked out, didn’t look back. He doesn’t care if she’s back in Arkadia or there in front of him. She could travel a thousand miles to see him. It wouldn’t matter because the “family” that is so important to him no longer includes her.

Clarke is a relic from a past life, one her dad cut all ties to. She is certain her dad loves her, or loves the child he raised and watch grow up. But _this_ version of her—an adult with her own mind and experiences he hasn’t heard of, with pain he doesn’t acknowledge—her dad doesn’t know that Clarke. She is a stranger in his house.

She sits there for a while, feeling sorry for herself. Then the pressing heat of someone’s gaze on her makes Clarke look up. Somehow, she knows who it’s going to be before she actually sees him. A shiver passes through her, goosebumps raising on her skin that clue Clarke into his proximity.

Bellamy is approaching the bench she’s on. He has another hoodie on, this one promoting the Eden High School Historians. His brow furrows, his deep brown eyes falling from her to Thisbe.

She must look pretty pathetic, if he is volunteering to get closer to the screaming baby and girl crying. He _should_ be running in the other direction. For someone who claims to want no part in drama, he seems to have a radar for when it’s happening around him.

“She just started screaming,” Clarke blurts, for something to say.

Bellamy remains silent. This, for some reason, makes Clarke want to keep talking. “She’s _always_ crying, actually. I think it’s colic…or she’s possessed.”

His eyebrow goes up at that. He might be amused or judging her. Clarke has no idea. She doesn’t know what he’s doing there, either. He’s free to walk away, back to his life and she’s about to tell him so when he speaks.

“Well,” he says, “you could try the elevator.”

Clarke blinks. “The elevator?”

In response, Bellamy bends down and scoops Thisbe out of her stroller. Clarke gets the thought that maybe she should stop him. Letting near-strangers pick up your baby is probably bad parenting. But before she can, it’s already happening.

Bellamy lifts her up in his arms. It doesn’t look odd, like it would if she was doing it. In fact, he seems perfectly at ease with Thisbe, on par with her own mother.

“This is the elevator.”

Bellamy turns Thisbe so she’s facing out, still howling, with his hands wrapped around her midsection. He holds her steady as her legs kick wildly. Then he’s bending at the knee, swooping down and back up again, over and over in one smooth, slow motion.

By the fourth time, Thisbe’s cries dissolve. The abrupt silence is deafening. The redness clears from her tiny face and she’s calm, blinking at Clarke like nothing is wrong.

Her jaw drops. _Unbelievable._ It’s actually working.

She watches Bellamy move up and down, with nothing short of amazement. “What, are you a baby whisperer or something?”

“Or something,” Bellamy replies, voice low. “My little sister had a pair of lungs on her. It just takes practice.”

“I don’t know,” Clarke says, studying him. He’s a natural with Thisbe. “I think it’s you. You have a soothing presence.”

Bellamy blinks at her. She enjoys seeing the tables turned. He’s surprised, she can tell. And maybe there’s a glimmer of interest in his dark eyes, no longer vacant, that gets her to continue.

“It’s your hands.”

“My hands?” He repeats.

Clarke nods, noting the way they engulf all of Thisbe. “You have large hands. And your voice. It has a very deep, rumbling quality. Kind of like the ocean.”

Bellamy frowns. His eyelashes flutter for a moment and if she didn’t know better, she’d guess he seems flustered. He doesn’t answer, which Clarke could have predicted this time.

“Bellamy!”

His motions stop, both of them turning to see Stella heading over to them. She smiles brightly when she reaches them. “I thought that was you.”

He dips his chin at her in greeting. “Hey.”

That’s when Thisbe chooses to burst into a fresh round of tears. “Oh,” Stella gasps and reaches out to take her from Bellamy. “Where’s your father?” she asks Clarke.

“At the restaurant. Thisbe started to freak out, so I took her out for some air.”

Stella hums in sympathy. “She must be hungry.” After a glance at her watch, she continues although no one else spoke. “What a night! You would not believe the crisis I had to sort out at work. The checkbook is out of order, I must have missed a deposit or something. I don’t know. Thank God the girls are so understanding. Not getting paid for all their hard work? Can you imagine? They must think I’m a terrible boss.”

Between the monologue Stella has going and the baby’s meltdown, with Bellamy still standing there, Clarke’s temper pricks again. Why does Stella have to turn _everything_ into a big deal?

“I have to get back,” Bellamy says, taking a step away. “Congrats, Stella.”

“Oh, Bellamy, thank you,” she gushes. “I’m thrilled you and Clarke had a chance to meet. She’s new in town, hardly knows a soul, and I was hoping she’d have someone to show her around.”

Her cheeks burn. _Oh my god_ , Clarke almost hisses at her. _Shut up._

Bellamy is well-aware of the people she has encountered in this town. As if the reminder isn’t enough, now Stella is making it sound like she’s desperate for company. His opinion of her couldn’t be lower. Clarke tells herself she doesn’t care what he thinks…but, inexplicably, she _does_.

Thankfully, Bellamy keeps his judgments to himself. He only nods at Clarke before continuing on the boardwalk in the opposite direction.

“Shh, shh,” Stella shushes the baby, strapping her back into the stroller. As she and Clarke start walking toward the pizzeria, she says, “It’s wonderful you and Bellamy are friends!”

Clarke scoffs. “We’re not. I hardly know him.”

“Well,” Stella continues, undeterred, “You should _get_ to know him. He’s a sweet boy. He and his sister Octavia would be great pals for—”

Clarke halts. She’s at her breaking point for the night. In between Stella’s endless chatter, the baby, and her (long-overdue) realization about her dad, the dam holding back Clarke’s emotions cracks open.

“I’m not looking to make friends here, okay?” Clarke bursts, whipping around to face her. “I just want to spend time with my dad. I don’t care about anything else, so save your _helpful_ suggestions for someone else.”

Clarke turns away before she can register the flash on hurt on her stepmother’s face. She strides into the restaurant, leaving Stella and the baby crying behind her. That was harsh, she knows. But every lightning storm needs a tree to strike and Stella is, like always, standing too close. 

 

* * *

 

All the signs of an impending explosion are there. Clarke knows how to recognize them better than most people. It’s a matter of _when_ , not if, the fight will happen. And that time comes as soon as their little family arrives home from the pizzeria.

Clarke retreats to her room. Even without the crackling tension between her dad and Stella, the itch is still in her blood to flee. Shroud herself in isolation. She couldn’t look her dad in the eye during dinner, swallowing back disappointment like sharp shards of glass cutting her throat on the way down.

Not that he noticed. Why would he? She’s still Clarke—rational, independent, and un-needy. She’s fine, because she’s _always_ fine.

The baby gets put to bed. The clock reads nine pm, then ten, then eleven. She should be sleeping soundly in her bed, like Thisbe. Instead, Clarke sits on the balcony with one of her favorite books and lets the rolling waves outside drown out the yelling inside the house.

By midnight, she had finished _The Awakening_ and she can still hear them. It goes on in a cycle. Their voices settle, discussing calmly in the middle ground, before an accusation or a confession is laid down like a grenade and it starts again, rising and rising.

Clarke can’t listen anymore. She has to get out. After grabbing her keys, she makes creative use of the tree right beside the balcony. Because the possibility of failing down and breaking her arm is somehow more appealing than walking by her dad and Stella’s verbal cage match inside.

She jumps from the last branch, her feet landing on the beach grass with a hard thud. Then she rounds the back of the house and climbs into her car.

Clarke is out for two hours, driving through the quiet streets of the Valley. She circles by the college campus where her dad works, down to the pier, the Gas/Gro station and passes by the cluster of Eden High School buildings. It’s too small of a town to get lost in, but she does her best.

It’s weird to think in an alternate reality, this could have been her life. Living in this small town with her dad. Knowing everyone else like they know her, going to bonfires every weekend, getting a job in town after graduating from the local U. Would she be happy being a townie?

_No_ , Clarke decides. She shudders at the thought. Arkadia is home, but even then Clarke has always imagined going off on her own, starting her life in a big city. Shrinking herself to fit into Shallow Valley would feel like suffocating. She craves more than this town can offer her.

When Clarke returns to the house, all the lights are out. It is as silent as it’s supposed to be at 2am. Safe for Clarke to slip back inside.

Everything looks normal. The stroller is parked by the stairs, her dad’s keys sitting in the bowl by the front door. The only difference is the kitchen table is crowded by messy stacks of paper, Stella’s business checkbook, and several legal pads covered in notes. Clarke approaches the clutter, as if her inner perfectionist can’t just walk by and leave it alone.

The notes are all in Stella’s writing. Her stepmother was trying to solve what went wrong with the payroll. From the looks of it, she hadn’t gotten anywhere yet.

Clarke bites her lip. She can picture Stella’s hurt face earlier, after she snapped at her. Remembers her desperation, too, as she fought with the bank and tried to pay the girls what they earned. No matter her own struggles going on, Stella had taken it upon herself to fix the mess. _My responsibility_.

She admired that. Hell, it was something her _mother_ would have done. And if Clarke could ease her burden, even a little bit, why wouldn’t she?

Bellamy’s voice comes back to her then, when she asked why he had helped her. _Because it looked like you needed it_. Twice now he had come to her rescue, gaining nothing for himself in the process. Clarke considers this her chance to pay it forward.

So she hits the button to turn on the coffee maker. Her work is laid out in front of her and Clarke still has a while to go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you guys think! Your comments make my day <3 
> 
> Cry with me about bellarke on [tumblr](http://www.kombellarke.tumblr.com)


	3. three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Your kudos and comments have been so inspiring <3 Here's the next chapter. 
> 
> We have lots of characters interacting here, Clarke getting settled in, and some beautiful Jasper & Monty friendship. I gave myself serious s1 feels writing this haha. 
> 
> Note: The "womb and gender stereotypes" line is directly from Along for the Ride. I used the quote to demonstrate Abby's perspective on women and how it passed on to Clarke, shaping her own harsh judgements. Which she will grow out of pretty soon :-) 
> 
> Enjoy!

“I can’t believe it!”

Stella’s voice is too loud and vibrant, ambushing Clarke as soon as she comes downstairs the next day. Her stepmother is standing over the kitchen table, eyeing Clarke’s work on her books as one might regard long-lost treasure.

“When I went to bed last night, this was a complete disaster. I had just about given up. But you…you _fixed_ it.” Her brown Bambi eyes switch to Clarke. “How did you even know what to look for?”

Clarke shrugs, twisting open the lid to the coffee grinds. By the time she gets out of bed, hours after Stella, she has to make a fresh pot. “Last summer, I worked for an accountant. I picked up a few things.”

Stella shakes her head, still in disbelief. “I spent _hours_ going over the register, again and again. I couldn’t see it right in front of me. How did you figure out the issue with double withholding?”

“According to the register, it happened last April,” Clarke explains. “So I thought it may have happened again. I figured it out by taking a look at your tax statements.”

She starts filling up her mug as behind her, Stella gushes. “You’re a miracle worker. A _saint_ , Clarke. I don’t know how to thank you. I mean, you saved me.”

She could start with not making such a big deal yet again. Out loud Clarke just says, “Don’t worry about it. I liked being able to reach the root of the problem and straighten it out. It was a simple solution.”

Stella nods, eyes wide like she knows exactly what Clarke means. “Believe it or not, that’s why I love business. Everything adds up eventually. A neat system of checks and balances.”

Clarke doesn’t know how to respond to that. She feels the exact same way. How is it possible that _Stella_ —the shiny, baby-talking, powder puff Barbie of Shallow Valley—understands her mind on such a basic level? They actually have something in common.

Her stepmother’s lips curve upward, like she’s realizing it too. “I’m a perfectionist too. It would have driven me crazy all week, not knowing what went wrong.”

Clarke can’t help but smile back. “I get it. I’m glad I could help.”

She takes her cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal over to the table to sit with Stella. Thisbe is strapped to her chest in her pink carrier, gurgling softly. They settle into a comfortable silence as Clarke has her breakfast, although she can feel Stella’s eyes stray to her sporadically.

Her stepmother’s expression turns thoughtful. “You know; I’ve been needing someone to help with Primrose’s books for a while now. If you’re interested, I think you’d be perfect for the job, Clarke.”

Her first instinct is say no. She has no intention of getting a job this summer. Her sleep schedule is unusual, almost unpredictable. But especially in Shallow Valley—no way. She’s not laying any roots here, of any kind. In three months, Clarke is leaving and she isn’t ever looking back.

“I don’t know,” Clarke says slowly. “I’m not a morning person—”

“You wouldn’t have to be,” Stella jumps in eagerly. “The girls do the deposit every day and that’s all that needs to be done at a certain time. You can totally set your own schedule.”

She hesitates, wondering why she isn’t just saying no off the bat. Maybe because of Stella’s pleading eyes, on top of the fact that the offer is tempting. Really, what else does Clarke have going on? She is almost as bored here as she was back home.

The concept of a lazy, carefree summer is laughable. Clarke is the type of person that needs to keep busy.  It might be good, having tasks like payroll and the register to keep her mind occupied for a few hours. She’ll feel useful, at the least.

“Okay,” Clarke agrees. “As long as it’s not too many hours.”

Stella beams. She looks a step away from squealing, but thankfully, she doesn’t. She says Clarke is welcome to come by the shop that evening and Octavia or Harper will show her the ropes.

Right. Clarke forgot that tiny detail. Her co-workers might despise her on the spot, because Clarke is the homewrecker that came between their best friend and her boyfriend. It’s too late to back out, so she puts the thought out of her mind. In a town this size, Clarke is bound to run into them again either way.

She has some time to kill. The sea air is good for the soul—or so her dad says—so Clarke sits on the balcony and breathes it in. Her sketchbook lays in her lap and Clarke lets her mind wander, closing her eyes. She brings up images from her late night drive. The town is truly beautiful, but even more so at night.

Clarke’s hand starts sketching out the pier, lit by street lamps and the golden orbs of string lights. In her mind, she sees the pier as endless, spanning out for miles into the distance. The water is a deep, dark blue underneath it. She wonders if the depths contain the Valley’s most hidden secrets.

A sudden noise breaks her rhythm. It sounds like a chair scraping against wood. Clarke’s head whips up, searching for the source of the noise. Her room is empty behind her and she only sees the stretch of beach outside. Then Clarke turns her head and notices the other balcony, attached to the house next door.

There’s about fifteen feet between them. Clarke can see, clear as day, the wooden chair where Bellamy is propped with his legs stretched out in front of him. His attention is buried in a thick book he’s reading, paying her or anything else no mind. He’s wearing black glasses Clarke has never seen before and he’s shirtless, only in pair of worn jeans.

Her heart jumps at the sight of him. She’s surprised, that’s all. Though Clarke supposes she should get used to it. He’s probably out here all the time.

Clarke almost calls out to him. It’s polite to say hello, even though she _hates_ people interrupting her when she’s reading. But Clarke is saved from making a fool of herself when her phones rings from inside her room.

She sets her sketchbook on the nearby glass table and ducks inside. Clarke is expecting her mother, but joy rocks through her at the name she finds instead. _Wells calling_.

Her wide grin makes her cheeks ache. “Wells!” She cries, picking up.

His warm, familiar chuckle greets her. “Damn, Griffin. You’d think you have nothing better to do than wait for my calls.”

“I really don’t,” Clarke says and flops back on her bed. “What’s up? Where are you?”

“Amsterdam now,” Wells exclaims. “I got this _amazing_ shot of the Rijksmuseum. I’ll have to send you a new photo for your frame.”

Clarke sighs. “Oh, I envy you. That museum itself is a masterpiece.”

“You’d love it. Nerd.” She hears voices in the background, speaking rapid-fire Dutch before Wells moves away and it’s quiet again. “So you liked your present, huh?”

Her eyes jump to the bejeweled frame, sitting proudly on the white bureau. She made sure to pack it with her. Every time Clarke looks at it, she smiles.

“How could I not?” she replies. “It’s got _your_ face in it.”

Wells snorts. “That’s not even the coolest part. The idea that I had when I bought it for you is that you can keep switching out the picture. Because you don’t want the BEST OF TIMES to be just one thing, right? You want to have a lot of best of times, each one topping the last. You know?”

Clarke falls silent for a moment. Leave it to her best friend to turn a silly gift into something so profound. But that’s Wells down to his core—thoughtful without even trying to be. She misses him so much.

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees softly. “Guess I’ll have to make some good memories here to put in a frame.”

Being Wells, he’s also able to read Clarke’s subtext in what she isn’t saying.

“Not having a good time in the Valley?” Wells’ gentle tone makes her throat tickle. “Is it your dad?”

“It’s…kind of everything.”

Clarke doesn’t want to dampen Wells’ high spirits with her problems. But if she can’t vent about this stuff to her best friend, then who can she vent to? It’s too hard, pushing her anger and disappointment down every day. Those feelings are going to push back and she’s going to lash out, like she did at Stella, if Clarke doesn’t let them breathe.

She tells Wells about the Finn thing first, starting from the beginning. Then the blowout with Raven, working her way up to her dad’s busy schedule. That’s where her real grief lies. Her dad isn’t even trying to make time for her. Clarke recaps the disastrous night out, including her epiphany on the boardwalk.

“I guess I fooled myself into thinking if I got here, everything would go back to how it was three years ago,” Clarke murmurs. “But distance was never our problem. My dad and I are different people now. We don’t know how to connect.”

Wells hums on the other line, listening thoughtfully.  “Clarke, don’t take this the wrong way, but…after the divorce, you kind of froze him out.”

Eyes widening, Clarke springs upward. “I did not! He’s the one who _left_.”

“Easy,” he soothes her. “Just hear me out. Yeah, he moved out of your house. Got his own place. Because that’s what people do when they’re separated. He invited you to visit and be apart of that life two years ago.”

Oh, she remembers.

“That wasn’t an invite,” Clarke huffs, “that was an _ambush_. He just wanted to show off his new girlfriend. It wasn’t about me at all.”

“True,” Wells admits, cooling some of her outrage. Barely. “That was unfair of him. He shouldn’t have sprung it on you. But he tried still, after you walked away. He called and sent e-mails and kept inviting you in. _You_ shut the door, Clarke. You gave him one chance and when that didn’t go exactly as you planned, that was it. He was dead to you.”

Clarke shakes her head, despite knowing he can’t see it. Wells has it completely screwed up. He continues, using her baffled silence as encouragement.

“Griffin, I love you, but you are the Grudge Holding Champion.” He laughs to himself. “You cut your dad out without explaining why. And now, suddenly, you’re there. He must feel as lost as you do. 

She lets his advice sink in and groans. “Stop being so reasonable. Can’t you just call him a dick and agree with me?”

“That Collins kid is a dick,” Wells replies. She can hear the smile in his voice. “Your dad is a pretty cool guy. An _understanding_ guy.”

“Ugh, I get it. You’re about as subtle as a brick, you know.”

“I have to be. You and I are stubborn, only children that are used to getting our way.”

Clarke’s nose wrinkles at the description. “You make us sound like brats.”

“You’re a lovable brat,” Wells says, ignoring her protests. “Let’s not get off topic. Talk to your dad. Give him a chance to get to know you again, Clarke. He might surprise you.”

“Fine,” she bites. “I’ll try harder, but I _don’t_ like it.”

“Good,” Wells chirps, unbothered. “That’s what you came there for, right?”

Okay, maybe he has a point. Several points that she isn’t keen on acknowledging. “Well, it will have to wait until tomorrow. I have to leave for work soon.”

“ _Work_?” Wells sounds horrified. “Oh man. Only _you_ could go on a relaxing summer vacation and still turn it into labor, Griffin.”

“It’s a special skill.” He snorts at her sarcasm. “I have to go. Send me that picture, okay?”

“Will do. I miss you!”

Clarke smiles. “You too. Bye.”

  

* * *

 

Any regrets Clarke might have about taking the job comes flooding in when she opens the door to Primrose that evening. She finds Octavia standing at the register, Harper on the other side of her. At least Raven isn’t there, although it’s a small comfort.

There’s nothing as intimidating as approaching people who have already made their mind up about you. For Clarke in particular, the fact that it’s teenage girls makes it worse. Sure, they _look_ harmless, but she might as well be approaching two lionesses from a species that is foreign to her and loyal to one of their own.

“Hey,” Harper says when Clarke comes up to them. Her voice is neutral, her expression polite as if she’s talking to any other customer. “How can we help you?”

She’s perched on the edge of the counter, her legs swinging in a pair of flip-flops. Her blonde hair is split into two long ponytails and she’s wearing a denim overall dress over a bright yellow T-shirt.

“She’s going to be doing the books,” Octavia answers for her. The bangles on her wrist clang together when she slaps her magazine down on the counter. “Stella’s been searching for someone since Thisbe came, remember?”

Clarke shifts her weight in discomfort. Unlike Harper, Octavia doesn’t hide her hostility under a polite mask. The scowl on her glossy lips makes it clear she doesn’t approve.

She’s wearing pink shorts and a floral crop-top. A pink headband accompanies her long, dark waves. Octavia could pose as a model for Primrose’s entire aesthetic. Which is maybe why Stella hired her to work at the register.

“Oh.” Harper’s eyes widen, flicking from her to back to Octavia. “Maybe this means our checks won’t bounce now.”

Octavia snorts. “No kidding.”

Clarke must be making a face without realizing it, because Harper explains, “Don’t get us wrong, we love Stella. But getting paid at the ATM is kinda sketchy.”

“But you did get paid,” Clarke says, despite knowing she shouldn’t poke the hornet’s nest. “It was an honest mistake. Stella fixed it and I’m here to make sure it won’t happen again.”

Both girls gape at her. Clarke raises her chin, holding their stare. She has no idea where this burst of protectiveness for Stella came from. Perhaps living with her, witnessing her personal struggles up close, Clarke has to say she deserves to be cut some slack.

“Anyway,” Octavia says after a pregnant pause lingers. “Someone is supposed to show her around.”

She looks at Harper and it becomes apparent that “someone” means her, not Octavia.

Harper nods. She pushes herself off the counter, her flip-flops slapping on the floor. “Come on, Clarke. The office is over here.”

Clarke follows after her to a narrow hallway tucked in the back of the store. The first of the two doors is identified as the bathroom and the second Harper twists open. Clarke almost goes blind. She is assaulted by pink. All four walls of the office are painted a popping bubble-gum shade.

And if that isn’t offensive enough, then there are the accessories: a hot pink tape dispenser shaped like a high heel shoe, the orange Hello Kitty pencil cup, the pink polka-dot stacking bins. Even the filing cabinets have pink and orange labels.

Clarke gets nauseated just _looking_ at all of it. “Yikes.”

“Yeah,” Harper agrees with a short chuckle. “So, the safe is under the desk, the checkbook in the second left-hand drawer, and all the invoices go under the bear.”

“The bear?”

Harper steps into the room and picks up a little stuffed pink bear from the desk. “Right here.” She points to the stack of papers underneath him. “Any questions?”

She has many, _so many_ , but none Harper could answer. “No. Thanks.”

“No problem. Just holler if you need us.” She turns back to the doorway and into the hallway only to swivel back. “Hey, Clarke?”

Clarke peels her eyes off the Pink House of Horrors to look at her. “Hmm?”

Harper hesitates what she’s about to say, nibbling on the corner of her lip. Then she heaves a sigh. “Don’t sweat Octavia. She’s just protective of Raven. We both are, but…it wasn’t your fault. And she’ll get over it.”  

“Oh.” Clarke blinks her surprise. She doesn’t know the right way to respond to that. “Sure.”

Harper nods and walks away.

Clarke looks back into the pink room and thinks, inexplicably, about her mom. The only other person who would have a harder time entering it—this world—than she does. She could picture her appalled face; the way her lips would purse with disapproval.

“It’s like a womb in here,” she’d groan. “An environment utterly ruled by gender stereotypes and expectations, as ridiculous as those that willfully inhabit it.”

 _Exactly_ , Clarke thinks. And yet she walks inside and closes the door.

  

* * *

 

Regardless of her effeminate surroundings, Clarke finds that Stella’s books are in decent shape. She’s pleasantly surprised by how organized everything is and easy to understand. Sometimes Clarke forgets that Stella isn’t just an owner of a boutique, but also a Stanford graduate with an MBA.

Soon Clarke forgets that she’s practically sitting in a womb. When she gets the numbers in front of her, engrossed in the work, everything else falls away. Calm washes over her. It’s similar to how she feels when she’s drawing—like she’s transported somewhere else, a world that only exists in her own conscious.

There’s a simplicity in the projection of numbers, in sums and divisions. No emotion, no complications. Just digits on-screen, lining up in perfect sequence.

She’s so absorbed Clarke doesn’t even notice the music at first. She can tune reality and its background noises out. It’s only when the song playing goes from a quiet hum to loud, like someone cranked up the volume, that it pierces through Clarke’s bubble and hooks her attention.

Her watch reads 9:01. Still an hour away from closing. Curious, Clarke stands up from the desk and cracks the door open. The music descends over her like a wave, deafeningly loud. Some bouncy pop song with a girl singing about a boy hangover. Clarke stares into the store, clueless as to what’s going on until she notices the dancing.

Harper is shimmying by the body lotion section, her arms swaying in the air. Octavia follows after her, pretending to sing into a hairbrush as she rocks from side-to-side. And then Raven appears, swiveling her hips, her long ponytail whipping in time with her movements.

It’s a mad house. Clarke takes a step forward out of the hallway, half-convinced she’s hallucinating. What are they doing? She doesn’t see any customers in the store, but still. People are out on the boardwalk. They could easily look in and _see_ them dancing around like it’s a disco club.

Raven pops up suddenly behind the sunglasses display and Clarke catches a brief glimpse of her shirt, which reads _Spacewalkers Auto Shop_. Then she’s reaching out for Harper, pulling her into view. They take turns spinning each other and crack up. Octavia joins them, head-banging to the beat and they dance in a circle.

“Hey!” Harper calls out, eyes landing on Clarke just standing there. Her cheeks are flushed pink. “It’s the nine o’clock dance. Jump in!”

Clarke shakes her head. “I’ll pass.”

“You can’t say no,” Octavia shouts, bumping her hip with Raven’s beside her. Both of them are grinning. “Employee participation is mandatory.”

“Then I quit,” Clarke mutters, too low for them to hear over the music.

The girls move on, like a three-person conga line. Octavia leads them toward the register, bouncing on her toes as Raven hangs off her shoulders, laughing. Harper glances back at her one more time and when she finds Clarke in the same spot, she shrugs and dances after her friends.

Clarke watches for another moment, transfixed, before she shakes herself out of it. She heads back into the office, shutting the door to block out the noise. They probably think she’s no fun. Takes herself too seriously. Clarke has heard it all before.

She’s never quite grasped it, the point of stuff like that. It’s just like the activities she walked by and observed in high school—play wrestling in the grass, hot dog eating contests, food fights—never understanding how you joined in or even started. Or why? Was it nostalgia for the dumb things you did as a kid? The joy in feeling young again?

Clarke had never done them, even then. No impromptu dance parties or food fights. Now, they seem completely absurd. A waste of time and energy.

She picks up the fuzzy pink pen and goes back to the tax forms. Another minute passes before the music lowers to a soft background noise. She hears the girls’ voices on the other side but that eventually fades as Clarke submerges herself into her work.

At ten o’clock, there’s a knock on the door. Harper sticks her head in. “Closing time. Can I get in the safe?”

Clarke gestures for her to come in, pushing back her chair to make room. Harper squats down beside her, using a key to pop open the safe and stick the bank bag inside. She seals it shut and walks to the door, facing Clarke.

“O and I are leaving in ten minutes,” she says. “Should we wait for you to lock up?”

Clarke nods. “I’m done for tonight. I’ll meet you out there.”

Harper leaves her to wrap up what she’s working on and clean up. Clarke doesn’t want to walk out on a mess, even if it’s just her coming back to it. She quickly straightens up the desk, returning the supplies to their places and grabs her purse from the drawer.

The girls’ voices float to her as Clarke exists the office. “Hmm,” Octavia is saying, her voice playful, “I wonder where these Starbursts came from. Raven, any guesses?”

“Monty is leaving a sweet for his _sweet_ ,” Raven teases.

“Shut up!” Harper is smiling when Clarke emerges, unwrapping a red candy. “It’s not like that. He’s a store-goer.”

“And yet,” Raven raises her eyebrows at her, “he brings _you_ candy while O and I get nothing from him. We aren’t special.”

Harper balls up her wrapper and throws it at Raven, pelting her cheek. “It’s just candy. Stop reading so much into it.”

Octavia shrugs as she pops a candy into her mouth. “Hey, if you don’t want to get involved with him, I get it. He _is_ a high school boy, after all.”

Raven rolls her eyes. “He graduated at the same time we did.”

“Yes,” Octavia concedes, “but he’s not a college guy yet. There’s a big difference in that one summer.”

“You can’t use Atom as the basis for all high school boys, O.” Harper throws her a pointed look that Octavia sticks her tongue out at. “That’s one bad example.”

“I disagree,” Raven says. “I’d say 90% of high school boys are immature and overrated.”

Clarke can see the merit in that. It’s on that note that the girls pause their conversation and they spill as a group outside, onto the boardwalk. Octavia locks the doors of Primrose’s behind them. Clarke pulls out her phone to glance at while the three of them are debating their plans for the night.

“There’s always the Tip,” Harper suggests as she spins her keys around her finger. “Connor says he’s bringing a keg tonight.”

Raven groans loudly. “ _No_. I am so sick of sand and flat beer. Let’s do something else—like anything else.”

Harper turns her head to look at Octavia. “O, any ideas?”

A frown shapes on Octavia lips, focused on her cell phone’s screen. “Uh, one sec. You guys walk. I’ll catch up.”

Raven shrugs and the two of them start crossing the boardwalk, bouncing ideas off each other. Swearing under her breath, Octavia punches a number into her phone. She waits impatiently as it rings and then, “Bell?”

Clarke startles. It clicks after a moment, remembering when Stella mentioned Octavia and Bellamy are siblings. She takes a few steps away to give Octavia privacy. The boardwalk is still flowing with people and Clarke debates how to spend her own night.

10:15. Still so many hours to fill. She misses the quiet atmosphere of The Ark diner. Clarke has yet to find another place like it in the Valley. On most nights, she grabs a coffee from the Gas/Gro station and drives around until she finds a spot she likes, usually by the pier. That eats up a lot of gas though and the idea of reading at home is more appealing.

Then Clarke feels a light touch on her elbow. “Clarke?”

Finn is suddenly beside her, flashing a smile. Like he came out nowhere. “Hey. I finally found you. Where have you been?”

Clarke goes cold, ice filling her veins. “What do you want?”

Finn comes closer, his smile dimming when Clarke puts more distance between them. “To see you,” he drawls, like it should be obvious. “Come down to the beach with me. We can pick up where we left off.”

“We’re done, Finn.” Clarke stares him down, her voice flat. “There’s nothing to pick up.”

She turns away, but his hand closes around her wrist before she can get far.

“Wait a second.” She rips out of his hold and Finn quickly steps in front of her, his brows puckered over his eyes. “We have something, Clarke. Are you really gonna blow me off now?”

The _nerve_ of this guy. Clarke tries keep herself cool-headed, steel inside. Her heart thwacks against her ribs with rage, but she won’t give him an inch to use against her. He is nothing. A mistake left in the past, where it belongs.

“Get the hell out of my way,” Clarke hisses.

“You could at least give me an explanation,” Finn insists. His voice rises up and catches the attention of others passing by then. “We had a good time the other night and now you won’t even look at me? What gives?”

She isn’t doing this again. Clarke refuses to be another object of a public spectacle. God knows what the gossips in this town will say next.  

Clarke tilts her chin up to meet his glare. She speaks low, through her teeth. “What _gives_ is the girlfriend you didn’t tell me about. I’m not that person, but you made me her anyway.”

She shakes her head. “I _don’t_ owe you an explanation. It was a mistake and now it’s over. Consider it forgotten. It was nothing memorable anyway.”

A wounded look takes over his face. Once Finn sees his kicked-puppy expression isn’t doing him any favors, he finally turns back and walks in the other direction, shoulders slumped.

“Wise choice.”

Octavia is still standing by Primrose’s, green eyes on her. The fact that she overheard any of that makes Clarke’s whole body heat with shame. But Octavia only nods at her, saying nothing else before she disappears into the crowd, presumably after her friends.

  

* * *

 

Clarke settles into a comfortable routine. Her days in Shallow Valley blend into a balanced schedule, just how she likes it. Thanks to their close proximity, Clarke has narrowed down her dad and Stella’s schedules as well, making it easier for her to see or avoid who she wants in her comings and goings.

She wakes up around 1. If her dad is having a good writing day, he’ll be down in the kitchen for lunch and Clarke can join him. They talk about his progress at first, easing into other safe topics like Wells and her plans for school. At that time, Stella is putting the baby down for a nap—her attempts either succeed or fail depending on the day—and they have that bit of afternoon together, uninterrupted.

After lunch, her dad heads to campus or back to his office. On quiet days, Clarke will return to her balcony to read or draw, listening to the waves outside. But most of the time Thisbe is fussy or Stella is chattering on the phone, so Clarke escapes to the beach for a few hours until it’s time for her shift at Primrose.

She gets to the store at six, after grabbing herself dinner from the Dropship Café. This is when the shift changes and Harper is leaving while Octavia is coming on. However, Clarke notices that for some reason Harper sticks around after her shift, unpaid, by choice. Sometimes Raven is there too, on her break from the auto shop, and the three of them hang-out, never running out of things to talk about.

This is what people _do_ in Shallow Valley. The girls hang around, gathered around the register at Primrose and chat while flipping through fashion magazines, while the boys sit on benches at the boardwalk or flock in front of the bike shop, chatting and looking at bike magazines.

It’s bizarre. And yet it goes on everyday, another seamless routine.

“Hi,” Harper greets when Clarke arrives, a lollipop between her teeth. She’s the friendliest of the girls so far. “How’s it going?”

“Good,” Clarke says, giving her a small smile. She tries to be friendly too, but not overly so, in case she gets trapped in a conversation about body lotion or celebrity gossip she doesn’t want to hear about. “Get any shipments today?”

“Just these.” Harper retrieves a stack of papers and hands them off to her.

“Thanks,” Clarke nods.

“No problem.”

A minute later, Clarke is secured in her office, alone. Also how she likes it. From then, she typically has no problem getting lost in the task in front of her. She can block out the noise from the store: Raven’s laughter before she leaves, Harper singing and humming during her shift. Then there’s Octavia who is always, _always_ talking to the customers.

“Oh, those look _amazing_ on you!” Clarke can hear her gushing, her voice loud. Octavia doesn’t seem to have an inside voice or an off button. “Petunia’s are the best. I live in mine.”

“I don’t know,” a girl’s voice replies. “I like the pockets on these, but the wash isn’t really my style.”

“Hmm.” A pause. “No worries. I personally think it’s smart to have a dark pair of jeans on hand. So you can dress them up. Not all jeans look good with heels, but those will.”

“Really?”

“Oh totally,” Octavia says. “But we’ve got a few other brands to work with here. The pockets on the Pink Slingbacks are great. And then there’s the Courtney Amandas. I swear, those are like magic for your butt.”

The girl laughs. “You’ve got me sold! Let’s try them.”

“Done. Let me find your size…”

Clarke rolls her eyes, jamming in numbers into the calculator. She overhears crap like that all the time at Primrose. Like the importance of the right shade of lipstick or the pros and cons of boy shorts versus bikini bottoms are so _vital_.

In the land of teenage girls, maybe it is. But Clarke is glad, proud even, to have bypassed all of it and focused on matters of real importance, useful knowledge. Which is why she’s attending Alpha U and moving up in the world while girls like Octavia will stay here, where they’ve always been. Their universe is the size of Shallow Valley’s perimeter.

Later on, at 9:00 on the dot, the stereo is cranked up. A minute later an upbeat dance song is blasting at full volume. This happens every night, without fail, whether or not it’s just one girl there or all three there an hour before closing. The nine o’clock dance always happens and lasts the total of one song.

After that, the last hour is uneventful. The girls chatter mindlessly with only a couple, if any, customers stopping by. Clarke makes a point of not listening to them, but sometimes their conversations reach her when she’s in the middle of switching tasks. Like her, the three of them are looking for ways to spend their summer nights.

Octavia’s vote is almost always going out to clubs (for dancing and/or meeting cute older guys). Harper likes the idea of movie nights with their other friends or bonfires on the beach with the promise of free beer. And Raven vetoes those other suggestions, wanting to hang out with the boys at the jump park and (most likely) pine after Finn. Although she swore up and down that she’s over him, so over him.

“So,” Octavia sets up her pitch that night, like every other. “It’s Ladies Drink for Free at Tallyho tonight. Who’s in?”

“What was it,” Raven wonders out loud, “that we decided the last time you made us go to Tallyho?”

“We didn’t—”

“No, no, no to Tallyho,” Harper chants over her, which makes Raven snicker.

A heavy sigh from Octavia. “What do guys have against that place?”

“You mean _other_ than the fact that Murphy works there?” Raven demands.

More snickering before Harper continues, “I just don’t feel like getting my ass grabbed by some drunk tourist. Sorry O.”

“There’s always the jump park,” Raven suggests, predictably. “It’s free and the boys will be there.”

Octavia groans her dissent. “Yeah, the same boys we’ve known for like our whole lives. _Boring_. Let’s doing something adventurous for once!”

Harper is in the middle of asking _like what_ , when Raven continues in a quiet voice. “I heard Bellamy might be riding this weekend.”

Clarke’s fingers slip on the calculator. She’d been adding up a series of numbers and then her mind stalls, losing track. A tense silence lingers as no one speaks. She can almost feel the weight of it pressing in against the door.

“That rumor goes around every week,” Harper says carefully.

She’s using the same quiet voice that Raven did, tip-toeing around the bomb that is laid between them. Clarke doesn’t know what it is, but she is familiar with talking _around_ a sensitive subject—one misstep and everything detonates. Leaving no survivors.

After another pause, Raven sighs. “It’s been over a year. You’d think that Bellamy…”

“ _What_?” Octavia snaps when she trails off. “That Bellamy what, Raven? Should get over it? Move on with his life?”

“Come on. You know that’s not what I meant, O.”

Octavia’s voice is still prickly, lined with barbed wire warning them to _back off_. “What did you mean then?”

Still frozen in her seat, Clarke marvels at the fierce protectiveness Octavia shows. As an only child, she’s always been a bit fascinated by sibling dynamics. Brothers and sisters that fight like mortal enemies, yet are ready to _kill_ for each other in a heartbeat. Not all siblings are like that, she knows. But Clarke can guess what kind Octavia and Bellamy are.

“Nothing,” Raven relents. “All I’m saying is, there comes a point when it’s unhealthy. When you have to get back on the bike, you know. It’s like his life just…stopped.”

“That’s because it did,” Harper murmurs.

“Bellamy isn’t you, Raven,” Octavia continues bitingly. “Not everyone can build a brace for their pain and get over it. Healing takes time.”

Clarke’s curiosity is burning through her at this point. What are they talking about? What is Bellamy healing from? His haunted eyes when she ran into him make sense. It’s not just her that sees Bellamy as a phantom. His friends are concerned about it too.

Of course, now that Clarke _wants_ them to keep talking is when they shut up. Raven and Harper choose not to push the issue, probably not wanting to upset their friend. Eventually, the conversation moves on to safer topics. Some Netflix show they all watch and Clarke tunes them out again.

At closing time, Clarke follows them out the door while Octavia locks up behind them. They’re still debating their plans, a constant back and forth, when Clarke leaves them standing there. She has to walk away, biting her tongue before her curiosity gets the better of her and she asks questions that are none of her business. 

 

* * *

 

By midnight, Clarke has already driven a full loop around Shallow Valley. Restlessness stirs in her blood and she is still hours away from going home. So, she decides to replenish her coffee intake at the Gas/Gro station.

Clarke parks in the deserted lot and reaches for her wallet when her ears pick on a rumbling of an engine. When she glances up, she sees a blue Toyota Corolla pulling in two spaces down from her. The bikes hooked on the back of the car are her first clue before the doors open and the boys from the bike shop climb out.

Their voices carry in the night as they stroll into the store. After a moment, Clarke hops out and trails them inside. 

She heads straight to the coffee dispenser, filling up the largest cup they have. The lanky boy inexplicably wearing the goggles on his head and his shorter, dark-haired friend are on the other side, wandering the snack aisle.

“Sunflower seeds,” Goggles is listing his choices out loud, “Twizzlers, yep. How about…Funyuns?”

“Jas, you don’t _have_ to name each item out loud.”

“It’s part of my process,” he replies. “Don’t try to limit my creative genius, Monty.”

Goggles tosses his snack selections over his shoulder for his friend to catch in their shopping basket. When he does without dropping any, each boy gives himself a high-five. It makes Clarke crack a smile.

She adds in her cream and sugar and seals the lid on her travel cup. Clarke takes her purchase to the register, getting in line behind a middle-aged man purchasing a carton of cigarettes. Then she hears the two boys coming up behind her.

As Clarke is being rung up, one of them says, “Hey. I thought you looked familiar. You work at Primrose right?”

She turns back to face them, their easy smiles. “Clarke Griffin,” she says.

“I’m Jasper Jordan,” the boy with goggles introduces himself and then points to his friend. “Monty Green.”

Clarke offers them both a smile before handing over her exact change to the cashier. “Look at that,” Jasper exclaims behind her. “She only bought a single cup of coffee. Such restraint!”

“Can’t relate,” Monty mutters just as they dump their collective loot of snacks and drinks onto the counter. “Who can come to the Gas/Gro and buy just one thing?”

“Well,” Jasper says as the cashier rings them up. “She’s not from here.”

“True,” Monty agrees and casts a look at Clarke, eyebrows raised. “No offense. We’re just—”

“Store-goers,” Clarke finishes for him. Her lips can’t help but curve upward. There’s something about the two boys’ relaxed, easy-going manner that puts her at ease too. She says it without thinking.

Monty’s eyes widen and he exchanges a grin with Jasper. “Exactly!”

Clarke uses the moment they’re paying for the purchases to slip away. She sits in her car, sipping at her coffee for a minute, lingering. Why, she can’t say. But she waits for Jasper and Monty to emerge, each carrying a stuffed plastic bag. They climb into their car and back out, their lights fanning across her as they drive away.

She waits another beat and then she’s switching her car into reverse, taking off in the same direction the blue Toyota had gone.

It’s an impulse move from someone who’s always thinking three steps ahead. A stupid idea, Clarke thinks even as she’s doing it. Her curiosity tends to land her into trouble but the mystery she encountered on her first night in town hasn’t left the back of her mind.

Clarke is looking for _something_ , even if it can’t be named.

She finds the jump park without any difficulty. There are bikes everywhere, attached to the back of cars and crowding the narrow sidewalks. Clarke follows other cars into a big lot and parks. In the distance she can see bleachers and tall light poles, shining down on the rows of jumps, ramps and terrain of sand.

There’s also a winding oval track made up of various berms that some people are circling on their bikes or riding off the ramps. Clarke has never seen anything like this before. It hits her, how out of her comfort zone she is, but she feels herself being reeled in by the unknown, a new puzzle before her eyes.

A car door slamming close-by breaks Clarke out of her reverie. She should probably leave, not belonging in this scene at all. There’s nothing for her here and yet Clarke is dismounting from her car and crossing the parking lot to get a closer look at the action.

Every once in a while, she gets a glimpse of a bike rising up above the sight line, suspended in midair before disappearing again. Clarke stares, but most of her view consists of the bleachers in which she can see girls in the stands, most likely mooning over the guys as they ride below them.

Case in point: Clarke spots Octavia sitting a few rows up from the bottom, not hard to identify in her pink top. Here to ogle at the high school boys, since there’s nothing better to do with her time. Harper is probably beside her, looking for Monty, as they eat candy and giggle to themselves. Of course.

Just as Clarke thinks this, Octavia stands up. She ties her long hair back with a ribbon and then digs into her bag, pulling out a helmet. Clarke’s eyes widen, watching with disbelief as Octavia straps the helmet on over her head and makes her way down from the bleachers, over to where the boys are stationed on the ground.

She reaches Jasper and Monty, sitting on their bikes like they’ve been waiting for her. Monty is chewing on a Twizzler stem while Jasper offers up his hand for Octavia to slap her palm against when she joins them. They talk for a moment and then Jasper is hopping off his bike, leaving it for Octavia to mount.

The boys back up, giving her space. She moves the bike back several feet, giving herself enough distance to travel before she squares her shoulders and takes off pedaling toward the jumps.

Clarke can’t tear her eyes away as Octavia rides, hitting the first jump at moderate speed, kicking up dust as she goes. By the next one, she’s steadily gaining momentum and at the third, she’s rising up higher and higher, soaring, with her and the bike floating in the air.

Clarke doesn’t need any experience to tell that she’s _good_. Octavia hits every jump squarely and her landings are smooth, not clumsy like some of the other riders. She coasts through the track like she is no longer controlled by the rules of gravity or normal speed—not held back by anything at all, like she’s _free_.

“Not what you expect, huh?”

Clarke starts at the voice. Coming up on her right side is Bellamy, his dark eyes trained on the same scene she was gawking at. His sister riding like a pro. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his gray hoodie and his messy curls dip into his eyes.

She has to make the effort to shut her jaw. “No,” Clarke murmurs. “Not at all.”

Stunned doesn’t begin to cover it. Clarke never expected Octavia Blake—the girly, boy-crazy, Lipgloss Queen—to be out here riding in the dirt, let alone being so skilled at it. But Clarke realizes she doesn’t know Octavia any better than the other girl knows her. Shame on her to dismiss her frilly outer cover as the whole story.

Bellamy nods, like she’s confirming his expectations. “She’s a natural. There’s no jump too high that can scare her off. The bigger, the better.”

Clarke can detect the note of pride in his voice. She wants to follow it, like a thread guiding her way. “She’s fearless.”

She thinks of what his sister, Harper and Raven discussed at the store. The possibility of him riding tonight too. Or rather, the impossibility. He doesn’t do it anymore and Clarke can only wonder at who or what stopped him. _Not your business,_ she reminds herself. _Don’t pry._

“And you?” Clarke counters, turning her head to look at him. “Are you a natural too?”

“No.” Bellamy doesn’t meet her eyes or even turn his head. One flat word.

That’s all he says. A door slamming shut in her face, locked. Clarke gets it—recalls the warning in Octavia’s voice, to leave it alone.

Clarke turns to leave. She’s seen all that she needs to see tonight. Only she’s barely taken a step away before Bellamy speaks again. “Not exciting enough for you?”

The words almost sound like a _taunt_. That’s what makes Clarke whip around, her eyes narrowed. “No. This just isn’t my scene.”

Bellamy looks back at her, that penetrative stare she can’t decipher. “Right.”

“It isn’t,” Clarke insists, sharper than she has to. Something about him, the way he says it, makes her feel like she has a point to prove, now. “I don’t ride. I’m not one for outdoors stuff. Ever.”

“Outdoors stuff,” he repeats.

Clarke rolls her eyes. She can’t help it, he knows what she means. “Yes. Like hiking, sports, riding a bike. Not my thing.”

“Sure.”

See, the words he’s replying aren’t critical themselves. And isn’t not like Bellamy is challenging her or even making a doubtful face. He’s giving her nothing, which is maybe what is bugging Clarke so badly. The flatness, the taciturn answers. It’s like the less he gives, the more she heats up.

“What,” Clarke snaps, “is that a crime here or something? Like only buying _one_ thing at the Gas/Gro? God forbid!”

Great. Now she sounds like a ranting lunatic. Bellamy’s eyebrow twitches upward. “What?”

“Nothing.” Her cheeks flush. She should just go, before she actually cracks and yells at him for no reason. 

“You know, if you don’t know how to ride a bike, that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Clarke’s jaw drops again. _Excuse me?_ “I can ride a bike! I just…haven’t had the opportunity in a while, that’s all.”

And she can. Clarke has a clear memory of when she learned. A bright, sunny afternoon when she was seven in her house’s driveway, with Wells beside her on his own bike. They learned together, like they did everything else.

Bellamy jerks his chin toward the jump park. “Now’s your chance.”

Clarke glares at him. “I’m not going to ride a bike just to prove to you that I can.”

He shrugs, unbothered by this. “Okay.”

Of course he doesn’t care if she can ride a bike or not. And Clarke doesn’t care if he believes she can. She has no idea why she came down here in the first place. Boredom, that’s all. They have nothing to prove to each other—not her, not Octavia and definitely not Bellamy.

They are barely more than strangers, orbiting each other for a brief time before inevitably going their separate ways. She won’t get pulled in. She won’t.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I love hearing your thoughts about the story so far <3
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://www.kombellarke.tumblr.com)


	4. four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I am blown away by all the support for this story so far! Thank you all for reading. I couldn't wait to post the next chapter as soon as I had time. Sorry for the delay, but hopefully this chapter makes up for it ;-) 
> 
> **Note:** Echo's character is not featured in a positive light in this chapter. It's part of the story. However, I want to warn fans of her character of the portrayal in this alternate universe. This will be the _only_ chapter that this happens. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The wooden door swings open and her dad appears, grinning brightly. “Hey kiddo.”

He steps back, letting Clarke slip by him and see his academic office for the first time. It’s exactly what she’d expect it to look like—a full wall containing a stocked bookshelf, a long black couch, his massive desk only slightly more organized than his one at home. In the small free space, he has his favorite painting mounted on the wall: Starry Night by Van Gough.

Clarke takes it all in. She heads straight to the bookshelf, skimming over the titles. Most are texts on philosophy and ethics that she isn’t familiar with. The scent however, she inhales greedily. It’s one of her favorites, the smell of old books. If only there was a candle that could capture this scent properly.

Her dad chuckles behind her. “You still do that.”

Clarke faces him again, her eyebrow lifting. “You know about that?”

“Of course I do.” Her father’s amusement dims, chased by what might be nostalgia or sadness. “You’d inhale like that every time I took you to a library.”

Her chest warms, memories flitting through her head. Clarke remembers those trips. Since she was old enough to read on her own, her dad took her to the library every Saturday morning. Every family has their things, she supposes, and the Griffin family members always had a book nearby. To this day, Clarke doesn’t leave the house without one.

“You should see the library on campus,” her dad says. “Quite a beauty. We’ll check it out after lunch.”

The warmth in her chest spreads, filling her whole body with happiness. That’s all Clarke wants. Spending the day with him, mending the overdue rift in their relationship. And finally, her dad made time for it when he invited her to meet him on campus that Friday.

Clarke smiles. “That sounds like a plan.”

She and her dad eat at a deli on campus. The atmosphere isn’t at buzzing as it would be during the fall semester, but Clarke still enjoys watching the students roam across the green quad. She can’t wait to be one of them in a few months, walking across Alpha U’s beautiful campus, pursuing higher knowledge in subjects that truly interest her.

During lunch, Clarke tells her dad about those classes. The Art History course she can’t wait to get her hands on. Her mom only listens politely when Clarke gushes about art, never understanding her enthusiasm for it. Clarke got her passion and skill for art from her dad. Before becoming a professor, he had big dreams of being an architect one day.

“Why didn’t you pursue it?” she asks him as her dad points out the impressive structure that is the campus library.

Her dad thinks for a few moments, his hands sliding into his pockets. He looks the part of a professor in his beige tweed jacket and slacks. “I’d be happy as an architect. But I realized making a positive impact on the world by studying ethics gave me a much more lasting sense of peace than anything else could.”

Clarke nods, like she understands this. Making an impact on the world isn’t something that has ever occurred to her. She liked helping the students she tutored in high school. And it feels good, knowing her work at Primrose’s is helping Stella worry a little less. Maybe he means something like that. Impact on a smaller scale.

Her dad gives her the official tour of the grounds. The campus isn’t as large as universities in bigger cities, but it still carries that collegiate feel to it.

“One of my students is being featured an art exhibit next month,” he says as they loop back to his office. “You should come. I’ll introduce you two. I’m sure he has a lot of vital information to share about our school’s fine arts programs and extracurriculars.”

Clarke shrugs. “My drawing is a hobby, dad. I haven’t decided on an area of study yet. Besides, I should be looking into Alpha U’s art programs if I’m interested.”

“It can’t hurt to network,” her dad counters. Then he casts a sidelong glance at her. “Shallow Valley University is a fine institution, Clarke. I wouldn’t discredit it just because it’s local.”

“I’m sure it is. It sounds like you’ve done really impressive work here, dad.”

Her dad nods readily. “I’ve been fortunate to work with such a talented pool of colleagues. People travel from all over the country to attend here, you know. I was honored to be offered to work here, in a beautiful town so close to my family.”

Clarke clenches her teeth so hold back a scathing comment. He means Stella and their baby. It was okay being far from _her_ and mom.

Her father continues, oblivious to how his words have hurt her. “I know you think Alpha U is the best choice, Clarke. It’s our family alma mater and it’s a top tier school. But life is about more than a renowned degree. _Family_ is what matters and making meaningful connections with the people in our lives. Not isolating yourself.”

Clarke halts, whipping her head around to glare at him. “What is that supposed to mean? It’s not like Alpha U is in the middle of nowhere.”

He faces her, a frown pulling at his lips. “You’re right, it’s not. But you don’t know another soul there, in the whole city. I just don’t what you following in your mother’s footsteps and making the same mistakes she did.”

Clarke feels her temper spiking, her blood at its boiling point in her veins. How _dare_ he criticize her mother to her face! If anything, he has made more mistakes as a parent than she has.

“And what mistakes are those?” She hisses through her teeth.

“Burying herself in her work,” he answers. “Determined to do everything on her own, because she thinks she doesn’t _need_ people. That’s not healthy, Clarke. She’s surviving, but human beings _thrive_ on their connections to the world. We need community.”

Clarke tells herself it’s bullshit. Her mother has a thriving career for her life’s works. So many people look up to her. She’d do well to follow Abby Griffin’s example.

Her dad sighs, laying a hand on Clarke’s stiff shoulder. “I’m afraid you’re doing the same thing, kiddo. You’re always on your own. I want more for you. Friendships, experiences, _love_. You’re not going to find that hiding in a library.”

Anger makes her heart thrash against her ribs. Clarke shakes off her dad’s touch and meets his eyes with a fierce glare, making sure he understands her perfectly.

“I _like_ being on my own. It’s easier that way, because then you don’t have to be disappointed by the people that are _supposed_ to be there, but disappear. You weren’t there for two years of my life! You have no right to come in here now and presume to know what’s best for me. Maybe you should worry about fixing _our_ relationship before you offer me any advice!”

Clarke storms away, ignoring her dad’s calls of her name. She’s done here.  

-

Her mood is dark and tempestuous when Clarke arrives at Primrose. The thundercloud lingers over her head during her shift, causing Clarke to slam drawers harder than necessary and huff to herself. Octavia even pops her head to check on her, but Clarke grits her teeth and pretends she’s fine.

She’s not fine. Her conversation with her dad plays on a loop in the back of her mind. It was just like two years ago. Clarke shows up to spend quality time with her dad, not realizing she’s walking right into an ambush.

 _Surprise!_ He has a new fiancé. Now, _surprise!_ He thinks her life choices—to attend his own alma mater—are a mistake. She’s _isolating_ herself from people. As if most eighteen-year-olds don’t move away for college and start their own lives, far away from their parents. For once, Clarke is following the status quo.

Why can’t he just support her? Why does she care so much about his approval? She survived the past two years without his guidance. She can do another four, easy.

Finally, the clock strikes 10 pm. Her anger has cooled, settling like a hard rock in the center of her chest. It’s even worse than blind rage. She’s hurt and disappointed. In herself more than her dad.

 _Fool me once,_ Clarke thinks as she locks up the office. Her eyes sting with unshed tears. All she wants now is to go home and put this day behind her.

Before she walks out, Clarke steels her expression into something cold and unbothered. Then she exits onto the floor, finding Octavia, Harper and Raven flocked around the register as usual. Comforting in its predictability.

“The thing is,” Harper is saying, “I’m not gonna meet a hot guy at a coffee shop.”

Octavia scoffs. “Says you. Those brooding, artistic types live in coffee shops.”

Harper shakes her head. “See, ‘artistic’ isn’t hot to me. That’s not what I’m into.”

A smirk sits on Raven’s lips. “No, H’s type is more adorable nerd. Like Monty.”

Color fills Harper’s cheeks. “Shut up. Forever.”

She hopes their conversation is so engrossing they don’t notice her. No such luck. As soon as Clarke steps out of the office, three pairs of eyes shift towards her.

“Hey.” Raven pauses, her brows furrowing over her eyes. She stares at Clarke. “Are you okay?”

Clarke nods. She takes a breath, not trusting herself to speak without her voice breaking for a moment. “Fine. Long day. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

She slinks by, all the while feeling Raven’s heavy gaze resting between her shoulders. But as she reaches the front door, the conversation picks up again behind her. The push and pull of banter, playful teasing, like the ocean tide splashing onto the shore and retreating. Rhythmic, almost soothing.

Clarke reaches the boardwalk and turns left. She goes to Beach Beans for a large coffee and then finds a bench to sit on, overlooking the ocean. At some point her phone buzzes with a text from her dad, apologizing for upsetting her. She ignores it. Clarke doesn’t want an apology. She wants him to _get_ it.

Clarke stews in her thoughts for a while. The beach is mostly empty in front of her, with a couple strolling on the sand, hand-in-hand, and a group of teenagers talking and laughing, their voices distant. Looking at them, a line from _The Awakening_ comes to her mind.

_The voice of the sea is seductive, never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander in abysses of solitude._

If there’s something wrong with Clarke’s preference for solitude, then the blame falls on her dad. _He_ is the reason Clarke lost faith in her own people staying in her life. Her mom might an overbearing workaholic, but at least she’s there.

The night had only begun and there is so many hours to wander, unfilled, until daylight. The thought suddenly makes Clarke feel tired. So tired.

“Clarke?”

She turns her head, blinking away the fog she was under. Raven is standing there, loose strands that escaped her ponytail blowing in the breeze. Behind her, the boardwalk is a row of glowing lights.

“You okay?” When she doesn’t respond, Raven goes on. “You seemed upset when you left.”

“No,” Clarke finds herself saying. “I’m actually not.”

Relief hits her, just from the simple act of admitting it out loud. Her shit isn’t together. She feels like kind of a mess. Maybe it was a mistake to come to Shallow Valley. She’s wasted _weeks_ here and for what? What does she have to show for it?

Clarke isn’t sure what Raven is going to do with her admittance. It’s all new to her. But Raven, clearly, has been here before. That much is obvious is the easy way she drops her bag on the floor and comes to sit beside her.

She doesn’t pull Clarke in for a big, bonding hug or offer some saccharine words of comfort—all of which would have sent Clarke running the other way. Instead, Raven gives her nothing but her company, realizing even before Clarke does that this is _exactly_ what she needs.

They’re silent for a long time. Clarke loses track of the minutes, but the fact is, it becomes her choice when—if—she decides to share what’s on her mind. Raven gives her that, too, and from this moment Clarke already knows any bad blood between them from the Finn thing is dissolved. A clean slate, where they’re just two girls who really do have more in common than they think.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” Clarke starts quietly.

Raven tilts her head toward her, listening.

“I mean, I know why I came to the Valley,” she continues. “I hadn’t seen my dad in two years. It made sense to visit. Until today…”

Clarke finds herself pouring out to Raven about her visit to the college, her fight with her dad. It might be the first time she’s ever fought with him and that plays a role in why she’s so shaken. Her dad is the one that _always_ understood her. He was always on her side.

She tells her about Alpha U, her dream. The last thread she thought she had to her father. Her acceptance to the school both he and her mom love was supposed to bring them closer. But Clarke was wrong about that, about everything. She should have stayed in Arkadia.

Raven listens, withholding comment or judgment, until she’s done. Then she unzips her bag, rooting around inside it to grab a magazine. Clarke braces herself for a pop culture reference, but it’s actually a college catalogue for the University of Arkadia. Raven pulls it into her lap, flipping through until she lands on a page with a corner folded down.

Then she shows Clarke. UA ENGLISH AND U the page reads. She immediately sees a photo of her mother sitting at the head of a seminar table, her hand gesturing, mid-lecture. It’s an image Clarke could identify anywhere.

“How…” Clarke swallows. “How did you get this?”

Raven shoots her a pointed look. “It came with my application package. Dr. Abby Griffin is a household name for the school.”

Her jaw is definitely hanging open. “You’re going to UA?”

She shakes her head. “I got accepted, but I decided on Alpha University instead.” Raven smirks, looking quite pleased at her disbelief. “That’s right. Don’t look so shocked, Clarke. I’m _awesome_.”

Clarke blinks at her, still trying to wrap her head around this. It’s not that Clarke thinks Raven is incapable of getting into a top university—she knows nothing about her intelligence, actually. What’s shocking is imagining anyone from Shallow Valley joining her there.

“Getting into Alpha U was my dream too,” Raven says. A gleam enters her eyes. “And when Finn tried to convince me to stay here, just to be with _him_ , I laughed in his face.”

Clarke snorts and Raven nods, lips quirking with her. “Exactly. So I get it. If your dad tries that shit again, I give you full permission to laugh in his face. It’s _your_ life, Clarke. The path doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but you. And if your dad can’t support that…screw him.”

Clarke lets Raven’s wise words wash over her. Maybe it isn’t that simple or maybe it is. Either way, she feels a hell of a lot better than she did when she arrived at Primrose.

Raven returns the catalogue to her bag. She digs through it again, pulling out a pack of gum only to find it empty. “Damn. Time to hit the Gas/Gro.”

Clarke watches as she stands up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Well,” she says. “Thanks, you know, for checking on me.”

A dark eyebrow goes up. “You’re not coming?”

“To the Gas/Gro?”

Raven shrugs. “Or wherever. Look, not my business. You can sit here all night, if you want. But honestly? Seems like a waste. You’re young, you’re hot and it’s summer, Clarke! There’s gotta be something better to do than feeling sorry for yourself.”

Despite herself, Clarke laughs. The hot comment gets to her, but Raven has a good point. Screw moping around. There isn’t any guy, including her dad, worth wasting a night feeling crappy over and she can bet Raven can attest to that.

So Clarke stands up. “Alright. I could use some more coffee.”

They fall into step, walking down the boardwalk and past the tourists, to where Octavia and Harper are waiting. Just like any other night, except Clarke can feel the shift in the air. Like anything is possible.  

-

“What I find,” Octavia says as Raven selects her gum package, “is that when you get gum, you always need something else. Because gum isn’t really a snack.”

Harper nods. “So true.”

“If I do get gum, I always grab some chips or cookies, as well. That way you know you’ve got your food and something refreshing for afterward.”

Raven picks out Big Red and straightens up, a thoughtful look on her face. “What about Tic-Tacs? They’re like gum, but I’ve had them for a meal before.”

“Tic-Tacs you actually swallow,” Octavia points out. “You own a Tic-Tac. Gum is just borrowed.”

Harper smiles at her. “Impressive.”

“Thank you.” Octavia winks. “I feel rather inspired tonight.”

The girls laugh. Clarke observes them, not feeling so inspired herself. More out of her element, an alien in a strange world. She _is_ impressed how these girls turn everything, even choosing a snack, into a fun activity. Like Jasper and Monty.

Next, Harper reaches for a pack of sunflower seeds, only to hesitate. “Wow. All night I’ve been thinking about these, but now I’m not sure they have enough snack bang.”

“Snack bang?” Clarke asks.

Raven answers for her. “It’s the amount of taste and sustenance you get from any given snack. So, sunflower seeds have very little. But beef jerky has tons.”

“I don’t get it,” Clarke admits as Harper decides on Pringles instead. “Like, any of this.”

“Get what?”

“This.” Clarke sweeps a hand, gesturing at the store they’re standing in. “The obsession with stores and snacks and analyzing every single choice. What’s the point?”

They all look at each other. Then Octavia says, “I don’t know. It’s like, we’re headed out somewhere. You never know what’s going to happen. So you stop for supplies.”

“The store-going comes first,” Raven explains, “and adventure follows.”

The girls head to the register and Clarke carries her fresh cup of GroRoast. To her, it’s simple: she requires nothing else. Yet, she finds herself suddenly reaching out to grab a pack of two chocolate cupcakes. Because maybe they’re right. When you don’t know where you’re going, maybe it isn’t a bad idea to have more than you need.

The four of them exit the Gas/Grow and pile into Octavia’s silver Jeep with their supplies. Clarke watches out the window as they drive, knowing nothing about their destination. Yet she’s okay with letting someone else be in the driver’s seat for once.  A night for trying something new, for stepping out of her comfort zone. Wells would be proud.

Twenty minute later, they end up in a residential area. Octavia parks on the corner in front of a big, Colonial house and they dismount.

Harper wrinkles her nose as they stand in the driveway. “Ugh. Like we haven’t been _here_ before.”

For some reason, this makes Octavia snicker. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

“Doubtful.”

Still, Octavia strides toward the house and Harper trails after her despite her lack of enthusiasm. Raven throws her a wink over her shoulder as Clarke follows. There are cars covering every inch of the driveway and a distant thump of music echoing from inside the house.

The party is in full swing when they enter. People are crowded everywhere and it reeks of cologne, sweat and beer. An odor that only gets more pungent the deeper they tread inside. The living room had more breathing space and that’s where the girls stop.

Music is blaring and people, mostly girls, are dancing off to the side in what space they can find. Clarke can see into the kitchen from here, where liquor bottles are gathered on the marble counter as well as the beer keg. For some reason, there is also a beautiful display of cupcakes, each intricately designed, and a tray of pastries carefully arranged on paper doilies.

Raven notices her staring and motions Clarke closer, whispering to her. “Echo’s parents own Mad Batter bakery. This is her house.”

She subtly nods toward a girl with long, dark hair in a white tank top and jeans dancing with a group in the living room. Even from here, Clarke can’t miss the sharp wings of her eyeliner and the heavy eye makeup.

“We need beer,” Octavia announces. She snatches a couple of red plastic cups and passes them off to Clarke. “Here. You’re closest.”

Clarke feels like a deer in headlights. She should mention she’s never tapped a keg before in her life, but then the music changes. A vaguely familiar pop song comes on and Harper squeals. She links arms with Octavia and Raven and before Clarke can protest, the three of them are dancing away and disappearing into the crowd.

She’s on her own. Clarke turns to the keg and studies it, her brows furrowing. _You can do this_.

She picks up the spigot attached to it and twists the top. Nothing happens. Clarke glances around the kitchen. There’s a couple making-out against the fridge, thankfully not paying attention to her failure. Clarke turns the top again and nothing.

Her cheeks burn. Frustration bubbles inside her. She’s never been good at asking for help, especially with things that people assumed you already knew. But Clarke doesn’t consider herself a quitter, either, so she goes to try again.

A hand appears over hers, large and tanned, the fingers pressing down on the spigot and beer fills up the cup she’s holding.

“Let me guess,” Bellamy says, his voice a deep, familiar rumble. “Drinking from kegs also falls under outdoor activities.”

Clarke looks up at him, somehow not surprised. She’s gotten a bit used to Bellamy suddenly appearing, particularly when she’s having an embarrassing moment. Like he has a radar for it. He looks good, she can’t help but notice, in jeans and a form-fitting blue Henley.

Her embarrassment quickly shifts to annoyance, however, now that she has an audience. Clarke glares. “Are we outside?”

Bellamy glances around, as if needing to confirm this. “Nope.”

“Then no.”

She focuses back on the keg and Bellamy removes his hand from the spigot. He watches her fill up another cup. “You know, you’re kind of defensive.”

“A side effect,” Clarke retorts, “of people _judging_ them for things they can’t do.”

His lips tilt up in the corner in what might be a smirk. “I see. Someone is still upset about the bike thing.”

“I know how to ride a bike!”

His smirk grows. “But not how to work a keg, Princess.”

That nickname reappearing makes her teeth clench, her eyes narrowing. “What’s it to you?”

He shrugs. “It’s kind of required around here. Like buying more than one thing at the Gas/Gro.”

Like that, her irritation is tempered by surprise. It should probably concern Clarke how Bellamy Blake can effect her emotions so fluently. She can’t believe he remembered what she said at the jump park. She almost feels bad for snapping at him. Almost.

Clarke finishes filling up the last cup for the girls. She can spot Octavia across the room, her hair swinging around her. Harper is looking at her kind of oddly, which Clarke doesn’t know what to make of. She sets their drinks down by her for when they’re ready.

Clarke takes a small sip of her beer. Flat and unappealing. Why does anyone even drink this? 

Bellamy’s eyes are on the cupcake display when Clarke peeks back at him. “Apparently, the people who own this house have a bakery.”

Bellamy looks up. “Really.”

She takes another sip, just for something to do. “She’s the girl in the white shirt over there. With the raccoon eyes.”

Bellamy’s eyes follow in the direction she indicates. “Oh, right. I see her.”

The girl, Echo, is really moving now. Pressing back against the guy that is, quite unashamedly, grinding against her. Another concept that baffles Clarke is letting people dry-hump you on dance floors. Echo peers over, her eyes meeting Clarke’s for a brief moment before the guy’s hands claim her hips.

“Yikes,” Clarke mutters under her breath.

Bellamy hears her, of course. He smirks again and there’s something there, a spark in his eye, when his gaze meets hers. Like they’re in on a secret together, but Clarke doesn’t know what it is. She likes it though. Maybe too much.

“You should have one of her cupcakes,” Clarke blurts. “I mean, they look amazing.”

“Nah,” Bellamy says. “I’ll pass.”

Clarke finds herself smirking now. “You know, if you don’t know how to eat a cupcake, that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

He smiles at her. A half-smile, granted, but it feels like a victory. “I know how to eat a cupcake.”

“Sure you do.”

“I do,” Bellamy assures her, still looking amused. “I just don’t want one of those.”

She bets Bellamy would look stunning if he really smiled. Let his guard down. Clarke wants to see it. The fire she is almost positive is lying, dormant, behind his outer armor. She seen sparks of it in the few times they’ve spoken, like when he mentions his sister, and Clarke is greedy for more.

“Okay,” Clarke says. She sees the opportunity arise and reaches into her purse, setting the pack of cupcakes from the Gas/Gro onto the counter. “Prove it.”

“You really want me to?” Bellamy asks, a dark eyebrow inching upward.

“It’s kind of required here,” Clarke replies. “Like riding a bike.”

Bellamy surveys her and Clarke holds his intrigued stare, chin titled up challengingly. A thrill races down her spine, like she’s toeing the line of something dangerous, before he breaks their stare and reaches for one of the chocolate cupcakes. Clarke watches, another taunt on her lips at his slow progress.

Then Raven appears out of nowhere, her hand clenching Clarke’s arm. “Abort! Abort _right now_!”

“What?” Clarke demands.

She barely gets the word out before Raven is yanking her sideways, past Bellamy. He stares at them, chewing, as Clarke is dragged out of the kitchen and out onto the back deck. Harper is clearing a path for them like it’s a life-or-death emergency.

Clarke has no idea what the fuck is happening.

“Hurry,” Harper says over her shoulder, eyes wide. “I think if we go down the stairs this way, we can get out and avoid this.”

 _Avoid what?_ “What’s going on?” Clarke cuts in as Raven is hauling her down a short flight of stairs. “What are you guys talking about?”

They spill out onto a lower deck, where Octavia is by Harper, her expression equally alarmed. Raven looks back, as if to answer her. But then a glass door to their right slides open and the girl from the dance floor—owner of cupcakes, Miss Raccoon Eyes—appears and plants herself directly in their path. Two other girls flank her, their faces hostile.

“What just happened in there?” Echo hisses, hands planted on her slender hips. She sneers at Clarke. “Who the hell is this?”

Clarke stiffens at being under her sharp inspection. Echo’s stare is icy enough to make her break into a cold sweat. The girl glares at her like Clarke has committed treason.

“Nothing.” Octavia speaks up, leveling Echo with a glare of her own. “It’s nothing, Echo.”

“ _Nothing_?” Echo scowls, taking a predatory step closer to Clarke. She’s tall even in sandals, towering over her. “What’s your name?”  

Clarke tilts her head to meet her glare directly, refusing to be intimidated by this girl.  “Clarke.”

Her eyes narrow into slits. “Clarke,” she repeats, the way you say _pus_ or _maggots_. “What kind of a name is that?”

“Excuse me?” Clarke scoffs before she can stop it. “Your name is _Echo_.”

Someone represses a snicker behind her. She thinks it’s Raven.

Echo’s eyes flash dangerously and Harper steps in, her voice frantic. “It doesn’t matter. Like Octavia said, nothing happened.”

“Was she or was she not hitting on Bellamy?” she demands.

Clarke’s eyes widen. _That_ is what this is about?

She feels Raven pinch her elbow, a warning to keep her from speaking. “She wasn’t,” Raven says, voice flat. No room for arguments. “She’s not from here, Echo. She doesn’t know anybody.”

The truth of that does nothing to thaw out Echo’s chilling rage. “I _saw_ how he was looking at her.” She shoots Clarke a venomous look. “He was smiling, for Christ’s sake.”

Octavia makes a point of rolling her eyes exaggeratedly. “Is he not allowed to smile? Gimme a fucking break.”

Harper makes another attempt to intervene. “Look, Echo, is was an honest mistake and we’re leaving, right now. Okay?”

Echo takes a moment, considering this. Then her eyes zero in on Clarke again and she steps even closer. “I don’t know who you are,” she says, jabbing a finger into Clarke’s chest. “And I don’t care. But you better stay the hell away from Bellamy, especially when you’re under my roof. Understand?”

Clarke glances over to Raven, who nods at her emphatically. “All right.”

“All right,” Echo repeats, still scowling. “Now get off my property.”

And with that, Raven is yanking her away from the scene again. She scurries after Octavia with Harper bringing up the rear, down a flight of stairs to escape the deck. They round the back of the house and end up on the sidewalk, buried behind a sea of parked cars.

Once they’re far away enough, Raven bursts out laughing.

The three of them stand there until Raven contains herself, still sporting a huge grin. To Clarke she says, “Okay, you are my new hero!”

Clarke blinks back at her, startled. “What? Why?”

“ _Excuse me? Your name is Echo?_ ” Raven parrots back at her while Octavia snorts. “Iconic. Seriously, anyone who can put that frigid bitch in her place is my new best friend.”

“Did that really happen?” Harper asks, her round eyes looking between all of them. “We almost just got our asses kicked.”

“Oh please,” Octavia says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “We could have taken them. Easy.” Then she nudges Clarke, a mischievous glint in her green eyes. “Don’t worry, Clarke, I can teach you how to throw a punch.”

Clarke shakes her head. The last half-hour is still catching up to her. _Insane_ doesn’t cover it. Echo and her posse actually looked ready to start a brawl. How does this keep happening to her? Somehow, in this town, she can’t escape the drama.

“She _might_ need to learn.” Raven focuses back on Clarke, eyebrows raised high. “Are you insane? Flirting with Bellamy in front of Echo Reed, in Echo Reed’s house, while eating Echo Reed’s cupcakes?”

“I wasn’t!” Clarke protests immediately.

“She doesn’t know,” Harper says, “about any of that. Echo is Bellamy’s ex.”

Clarke figures it as much. There is only one explanation for why Echo behaved so territorial.

“Hold on.” Octavia flings up a hand, capturing everyone’s attention. She narrows her eyes at Clarke. “What’s going on with you and my brother?”

Raven and Harper both make noises of agreement, fixating on her too. Clarke flushes at the sudden scrutiny and maybe at the implication in Octavia’s tone. This is the question of the night, apparently—and something Clarke wonders herself.

“There’s nothing _going on_.” Clarke crosses her arms over her chest. “We were just talking, about cupcakes and stuff.”

“That’s the thing,” Octavia says, tilting her head to the side. “My brother doesn’t just talk and _smile_ at anyone. Do you know each other?”

Clarke shrugs. “Not really. We’ve spoken a few times.” She doesn’t want to mention how he helped her after the Milkshake Incident or even the conversation at the jump park. It doesn’t _mean_ anything, really, but to her it feels private.

“From where I was standing,” Harper murmurs, “it looked like more than that. You looked…like you were friends.”

 _Friends_. What stuns Clarke most is how much she wants that to be true. She wants to get to know Bellamy better. Wants to tease him again, hear what his laugh sounds like, find out what books he reads late at night on his balcony.

Octavia exhales. “Okay.” She shares a long, meaningful glance with Raven and Harper. “I think it’s time we…”

She trails off, her words unsaid, but the girls nod. “We definitely need some snack bang for this,” Harper decides.  

-

 “If we tell you about Bellamy,” Octavia starts, “first, we have to talk about Miller.”

After the trip to the Gas/Gro, the four of them drove to the pier. They sat side by side, legs dangling over the edge and the moonlight illuminating their faces. It’s quiet, except for the occasional rustling of snacks being opened.

Clarke listens intently, her pretzels abandoned in her lap.

Octavia continues, “Bellamy and Miller were inseparable. Best friends since they were kids. I grew up with him too, but Miller was like Bellamy’s brother.”

“But they were _totally_ different,” Harper adds, a small smile forming on her lips. “Bellamy’s got a mouth on him, you know. But Miller was quiet, most of the time. He had this wicked sense of humor, though and he could _always_ make Bellamy crack up, even if he was in a mood.”

Clarke’s brow wrinkles. “You say different, like Bellamy isn’t quiet.”

“He isn’t,” Octavia says, point blank. “My brother will tell you you're full of shit to your face. It's a Blake trait," she adds with a wink. “And he’s so passionate. You listen to him talk and you actually give a shit about, like, the Fall of the Roman Empire in 476 C.E.”

“And he’s sarcastic,” Raven chimes in. “God, he could be such an ass. He and Murphy could spend hours throwing sarcastic quips at each other like it’s a _sport_.” 

Harper laughs in agreement. Then she explains to Clarke, “He’s really sweet though. If Bellamy lets you in and cares about you…you’re family. That’s it. He’d die for you.”

On the word _die_ , the mood darkens again, shrouded in sadness.

Octavia clears her throat. “And then the accident happened. It was May of last year. Bell and Miller were at this event at Concrete Jungle. They were both sponsored. They started out straight BMX, you know, but then Bellamy took up the half pipe, and Miller stuck to flatland. They were both great at urban, though that’s not really a surprise.”

Clarke gapes at her and Harper rolls her eyes. “O, half of us don’t understand the bike shit. Speak English.”

“Right, sorry.” Octavia sighs. “Bell and Miller were really good at riding. They were competing at this event and on the way back, the accident happened. A drunk driver ran a red light and crashed into them.”

She pauses, her eyes misting over. Harper’s nose is suddenly red, sniffling. It’s Raven that speaks, her voice somber. “Bellamy was driving. And Miller was killed.”

Clarke hears herself gasp softly. “Oh my God.”

A shaky exhale falls from Octavia’s lips. “Bellamy called me from the hospital. I could barely understand him. He sounded so wrecked.” Her eyes squeeze shut. “It _wasn’t_ his fault, but that doesn’t matter. He blames himself.”

Raven nods, twisting a bottle cap in between her fingers. “He’s never been the same. It’s like Miller took a huge piece of him when he went.”

Octavia blinks the tears out of her eyes. Her grief, her pain for her brother, is raw on her face and hard for Clarke to look at. She feels her own throat lock up, like it’s stuffed with cotton. _Oh, Bellamy_. She can’t imagine carrying a weight like that. If she lost Wells…no. Clarke can’t even think about it.

“He gave up on all his sponsorships,” Octavia says, pulling herself back together. “On riding, everything. He took a semester off at the U, but he hasn’t been back. Now…I don’t know. He works at the auto shop for cash. That’s his life now.”

Silence sinks in around them for a while. Harper’s sniffles break up the quiet and Clarke peers down at the dark water below them, lost in thought. She sees Bellamy’s haunted eyes. Now she knows the ghost that shadows him everywhere he goes.

“And Echo,” Clarke says, returning her eyes to them curiously. “What’s the story there?”

Octavia grimaces, likely not realizing the face she’s pulling. “They dated on and off in high school. Bellamy ended it after they graduated. She was there for him through the funeral, but they’re over.”

“Apparently, she sees it differently,” Raven mutters.

Harper shakes her head, smiling at Clarke. “I swear, when she asked you what kind of name is that and you actually _answered_ her…I almost left you there to fend for yourself.”

“She asked me a question,” Clarke huffs. “A stupid question. What did she expect me to say?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” Octavia says, like it should be obvious. “It was rhetorical. God. Don’t you know anything about dealing with jealous ex-girlfriends?”

“No. I really don’t.”

Her experience with ex-girlfriends is limited to her own, Lexa, who Clarke hasn’t seen or spoken to since their break-up a year ago. And then there’s Wells’ exes, who are all as friendly and thoughtful as he is. Clarke never had a problem with them.

Raven beams at her. “Looks like you got a crash course then.”

“ _Crash_ being the operative word,” Harper continues, popping a few jelly beans in her mouth. “She was so pissed! And then she tells you to get lost or else and you say…”

“’All right’,” Raven recites, along with a passive shrug. The girls crack up. “As if you were doing _her_ a favor by agreeing.”

“I can’t decide if that was incredibly ballsy or incredibly stupid,” Harper says.

“It was stupid,” Clarke decides, thinking of how out of her element she’s been the whole night. Handling payroll or acing an advanced level exam she can do, no problem. But navigating the social stuff is closer to a landmine for her. “The truth is; I’ve never had much of a social life. Not enough to gain experience from.”

There’s a long pause. “You know,” Harper eventually says, “that actually explains a lot.”

“It does,” Raven agrees.

Clarke frowns at them. “Meaning what?”

Harper bites her lip, glancing uncertainly at her friends before she elaborates. “I mean, just how you came to town and hooked-up with Finn like that and then were surprised when people, uh, drew conclusions about you.”

People meaning _them_ , she gets. Clarke can’t argue with that, but she gets the feeling she should be offended. They’re admitting to judging her.

Does she actually have a right to be upset by that? She judged them off the bat. Especially Octavia. Who is evidently some kind of bike-riding badass in pink. Clarke was wrong about her judgments. Of them and Stella.

Octavia adds, “Plus, there’s the way you’ve always kept to yourself.”

“Except for tonight.” Raven nudges her shoulder, almost proud. “I mean, we figured you thought you were better than us. But maybe you didn’t know how to hang out.”

She didn’t. But perhaps Clarke is learning, with each crash course and trip to the Gas/Gro. And maybe that isn’t a bad thing, like she once thought. She doesn’t regret how the night turned out. In fact, there’s an unexpected warmth in her chest, because she isn’t alone.

A sigh blows past Octavia’s lips when she checks her phone. “It’s after midnight. I better get home. Who needs a ride?”

They all stand up from the pier, gathering their empty snack bags and drinks. Both Raven and Harper accept the offer of a ride, the latter yawning as they stroll back to the Jeep. Octavia pulls out her keys. “What about you, Clarke? Need a lift to Stella’s?”

“That’s okay,” Clarke says. “I think I’ll grab some more coffee first.”

“More?” Raven eyes the cup in her hand. “Aren’t you sick of coffee yet?”

Clarke smiles wryly. “I’m made of coffee.”

She says her good-byes to the girls at the end of the pier. Thanks Raven again for inviting her out and when Raven says, _anytime_ , Clarke believes that she means it. Maybe even finds herself looking forward to another night like this—without the threat of violence, of course.

Clarke walks herself to the Gas/Gro to refill her cup. She has her caffeine, but she actually has no intention of going home yet. No, Clarke has another idea in mind. She thinks of how hard it must have been for Raven to come looking for her, not knowing how she would react.

The easiest thing would have been for Raven to leave her alone. But she didn’t go for the easy thing.

She is a girl who likes a challenge too. That’s how she likes to think of herself, anyway. So instead of going home, Clarke goes looking for Bellamy. There are a few things she wants to say. 

-

Clarke knows all of the hiding places in the Valley. It doesn’t take her long to find Bellamy.

The boardwalk is closer to a ghost town after midnight, the store fronts dark. Eerie to most people passing by, but Clarke is used to the dark. She heads down to the beach, taking inhales of the salty sea air. Once she hits the sand, she removes her shoes and walks barefoot along the beach.

There’s a silhouette nearly blending in with the rocks. The closer Clarke gets, she can make out the person’s features under the moonlight’s dim glow and the blue shirt. Bellamy sits on a large rock, his jeans rolled up around his ankles, and white headphones plugged into his ears.

She comes to a stop beside him, apprehension twisting her stomach into a knot. So she spent a night in the world of girls. Clarke _feels_ different, but what does that mean to Bellamy? Just as her nerve is failing her, Bellamy finally notices her there and looks over.

His expression is hard to read, as usual. But he takes his headphones out and keeps looking, his intense eyes fueling her resolve instead of weakening it. Because his stare unnerves her in a way Clarke has never felt before.

She imagines the feeling is similar to riding a bike over a high jump—that sensation of being suspended in mid air. She could hit the ground or she could soar in free fall and _that_ uncertainty is somehow exhilarating.

“Hey,” Clarke starts, her voice raspy. She offers him the second cup of coffee in her hand. “Figured you might want this. Long night and all that.”

Bellamy stares for a moment, studying her. He takes the cup. “Right. Thanks.”

Invigorated, Clarke moves to sit on a rock beside him. She drops her shoes and her bag on the sand. The waves rock back and forth in a soothing rhythm. She tilts her head back, gazing up at the glistening night sky.

“You can’t see the stars like this in Arkadia,” Clarke murmurs. “A con of living in a big city, I guess. It really is beautiful.”

When she glances over, Bellamy is still studying her. His brows are furrowed over his eyes and his lips pulled into a grimace. “What are you doing here, Clarke?”

Her lips twitch, almost breaking into a smile. She remembers Octavia’s words, the Blakes don’t cut corners. She should have guessed Bellamy would see through her bullshit small-talk. The two of them don’t _do_ small-talk.

Clarke takes a sip of her own coffee. “I’m here for you.”

At the disbelieving arch of his brows, she elaborates. “I thought you might want to talk or something.”

“Talk,” he repeats flatly.

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “You’re up, I’m up. I just figured…”

Bellamy’s expression changes as it clicks for him. Shuts down. “Oh, I get it. You _know_ now.”

Clarke’s heartbeat quickens. She tries not let on. “Know…”

“Don’t,” Bellamy snaps, shaking his head. “Don’t play dumb. My sister told you. O isn’t known for keeping her mouth shut.”

A sigh escapes her. “Look, I’m sorry. I wasn’t prying, but I thought—”

“I know what you thought,” Bellamy cuts her off, his voice tight with frustration. He turns his face away, a muscle ticking in his strong jaw. “ _Poor Bellamy_ , right? But I don’t need your pity.”

Clarke bites the inside of her cheek. Of course he doesn’t. Who is she to offer any comfort? She should just back off. It’s none of her business, not her story to read into.

She reaches for her purse, ready to leave this disaster of a conversation behind. But when Clarke slides off the rock and lands on her feet, she hears a quiet sigh behind her.

“Look.” Bellamy waits for her to meet his eye. “Do you want to know why I talk to you?”

The shape of his shoulders, all hunched, makes him appear braced for a blow. He’s on the defensive, as if he has something to fear from her. Before tonight, he didn’t. But now Clarke knows his dark secret, the tragedy that haunts him and she wishes she didn’t.

At least not yet. If she ever found out, it should have come from him. She’s blind-sighted him. A practical stranger peering in on his vulnerability. Clarke feels awful for it. She wants to blurt out her own failures and pain to him, just so they’re even. So he doesn’t have to feel exposed.

“No,” Clarke says honestly. “Not unless _you_ want me to know. I’m sorry, Bellamy.”

Now she can read his surprise. Quiet falls between them for a minute. Clarke waits, ready to walk away again. It’s his choice. Then Bellamy swallows thickly, his throat bobbing.

His voice comes eventually, husky and low. “Because, from that first night, you were different. Real.  You didn’t treat me like glass or give me that look.”

“What look?” she murmurs.

“That one.” Bellamy points at her face. “Like I’m some fragile, broken thing. I hate that. I’m not a fucking tragedy. I like the way you looked at me before.”

Clarke pauses, curiosity burning away her shame. “Yeah? How?”

A half-smile flickers over his mouth. “Like I’m a book you want to read every page of.”

She gives him a half-smirk in return. “Don’t worry, you’re not _that_ interesting, Bellamy. I’ve got a curious mind.”

Thankfully, that does the trick of relieving some of the tension in the air. His body loosens some of its stiffness and his smile looks natural, less bitter. “I knew it’d get you into trouble. Called it the day you permanently scarred my truck.”

Her eyes roll automatically. “I already apologized for that. And you know what? You owe _me_ an apology now.”

His eyebrow arches upward. “How’s so?”

“You almost got my ass kicked tonight!”

“Really?”

Clarke nods, crossing her arms over her chest. “Like you didn’t know that was _your_ girlfriend I was talking about. Not to mention looking at _while_ I was talking about her!”

“Hold on,” Bellamy protests. “She—”

Clarke ignores him. He deserves to hear a piece of her mind about this. “You let me stand there and shoot off my mouth! And then when she came after me…”

“Wait.” Both of his eyebrows shoot up. “Echo _came after_ you?”

“She poked me in the chest and warned be to stay away from you,” Clarke says dryly. She glares at him when it seems like Bellamy might smirk again. “It isn’t funny! You put my life in danger tonight _and_ left me to fend for myself. Which is not cool.”

Bellamy nods, accepting her grievances. “Echo isn’t my girlfriend, though.”

“You should probably tell _her_ that,” she retorts. “If you can make time during all your cupcake eating.”

“Delicious, by the way,” he says. He peers up at her. “What are you really doing out so late?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Clarke says. At his look, she adds, “I don’t sleep at night.”

“Why not?”

Time for her to spill her truths. It is only fair. “It used to be because my parents were up fighting. Now…I don’t know.”

Bellamy takes this in silently. The slight breeze ruffles his messy curls and Clarke gets this brief, weird urge to brush the hair out of his eyes. “So what do you to pass the time?” he asks. “Besides not riding bikes.”

“Read. Walk along the beach. At home, I have a twenty-four-hour diner I like, but here…no dice. Your small town sucks.”

Bellamy snorts, a small victory. Then he pushes to his feet. “You should go where I go. Open twenty-four/seven, great coffee _and_ pie.”

Clarke’s eyes widen with interest. “That’s the trifecta. Care to share?”

He pretends to think about it and then nods decisively. “It’s a local secret. But I _think_ I can get you in.”

Clarke smiles. “Lead the way.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the girls bonding and some insight into Bellamy's past. This one was fun to write! More Bellarke is coming next chapter :-) 
> 
> Here's my [tumblr](http://www.kombellarke.tumblr.com) <3


	5. five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! So sorry for the delay guys. Lost inspiration for this story for a while, but it's back now :-) Watching Bellamy & Clarke flirt during the s6 premiere definitely helped. 
> 
> This is my favorite chapter so far. Hope you guys enjoy it!

Clarke gives him a skeptical, side-long glance. “This is _not_ a restaurant.”

They’re standing in a Laundromat; which she can at least say she’s never been inside one before. Honestly, Clarke doubted they even existed outside of movies before tonight. But here they are, surrounded by washing machines on one side of the room, a checkered floor and plastic tables lined up for folding.

“Never said it was a restaurant,” Bellamy replies as he walks over to a machine, dropping the bag he carried in from his car on top of it.

“You didn’t say it was a Laundromat,” she points out.

“I didn’t mention that? Huh.” Bellamy pulls out a bottle of Tide from his bag and dumps the clothes into the machine. He shuts the glass door and feeds in some quarters before water begins to slosh around inside. “Follow me.”

Clarke does, trailing behind him to a narrow hallway in the back. They pass through to a plain white door, which Bellamy knocks on before opening and gesturing for Clarke to go through first. This little trip is getting sketchier by the minute, but for some reason she actually trusts Bellamy. At least trusts he isn’t leading her to a back alley to kill her.

Clarke walks through and immediately smells coffee. The room is small and in sharp contrast to the rest of the Laundromat with deep purple walls and multi-colored lights tacked up over the back window. There are a few square tables and a long counter where a man is sitting on a bar stool.

His blue eyes regard Clarke with surprise. He has long dark hair and a matching beard. “You bringing in strays, Bellamy?”

“This is Clarke,” Bellamy says, coming to stand beside her. To her he says, “Clarke, this is Nyko. She’s here for the pie.”

Nyko smiles. “Good choice. We’ve got apple, blueberry, pecan and razzleberry on the menu tonight.” He gestures for them to sit down at one of the tables.

“Razzleberry?” Clarke asks, glancing between the two of them. Across the table, Bellamy shrugs back like he doesn’t know either.

“Raspberry and blueberry,” Nyko explains, excitement for his concoction gleaming in his eyes. “Sort of tart, a little intense. But worth trying.”

“I’ll try it,” Bellamy offers and then looks to her. “Feeling brave, Princess?”

Her eyes roll at the nickname. She’ll break him out of it, if it’s the last thing she does. “Sure. I’ll have razzleberry. And coffee.”

Nyko nods, hopping off his bar stool. He busies himself with retrieving two mugs from a rack and filling them up from his waiting coffeepot. Then, as they watch, he pulls out a steaming pie from the oven hidden under the counter. Nyko cuts two slices for both of them and sets them on plates, carrying them over to their table.

Clarke takes a sip of her coffee first, which is how she judges diners for quality (and now Laundromats). It’s delicious, but has nothing on the pie. An involuntary moan escapes her at the first taste. Holy crap.

Bellamy smirks at her reaction. “I told you.”

Clarke is too busy enjoying her heavenly pie to be annoyed at his smugness. “This is,” she tells Nyko, “the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

He chuckles deeply. “That’s what I like to hear. I’m an amateur baker, you know. Still trying to learn the ropes.”

“I think you’ve found your true calling,” she says, piercing another bite on her fork.

“Nyko owns the auto shop,” Bellamy tells Clarke, digging into his own slice. “And the Laundromat. And about four other businesses in the Valley. He’s a mogul.”

“You’ll show your boss some respect,” Nyko says with a wink. When he notices Clarke’s intrigued expression, he elaborates. “Bellamy helps me out with my side project at the shop.”

“Side project?” she echoes. Her interest swells as she watches Nyko and Bellamy exchange a secretive smile.

“Restoring classic cars,” Bellamy answers.

Clarke’s brow creases. “There’s a market for that in Shallow Valley?”

“I work throughout the state,” Nyko says, pouring himself a mug of coffee. “And just because I’m good at business doesn’t mean I can do a perfect pie crust. Or so I’m learning.”

Clarke has to disagree. Every bite tastes like perfection to her. She’s never had much of a sweet tooth, but the razzleberry has enough tartness to thrill her taste buds.

“You have to admit this is better than driving around and hitting the Gas/Gro,” Bellamy says.

“Much,” Clarke agrees.

To Nyko, he elaborates, “She doesn’t sleep much either. Nyko bought this place just to he’d have something to do at night.”

The phone rings from the hook on the wall and Nyko moves to pick it up. They finish off the rest of their slices and cups of coffee. A part of Clarke never thought she’d be here—the back of a Laundromat eating pie with Bellamy. But unlike the party and stepping into girl world, _this_ doesn’t feel weird at all.

“You’re right,” Clarke says once she sets down her empty mug. “I never would have found this place in a million years.”

“Nope.” Bellamy cocks his head to the side. “Guess our small town doesn’t suck completely.”

“The jury’s still out,” she retorts. Her watch reads 2:15 am. “So,” she turns her eyes back to him. “What else you got?”

Bellamy says his goodbye’s to Nyko, thanking him for the pie, and retrieves his clothes from the wash. Then they’re climbing back into his truck. Clarke is hit with another whiff of Bellamy’s cologne, heavy inside his car with earthy notes of wood and amber. It _might_ smell even better than old books.

As they drive to the next mystery destination, Clarke’s eyes wonder. Bellamy is still such an enigma himself and she is secretly—or maybe not so secretly, remembering his words—curious to find out more.

The duct tape is still wrapped around the right side-mirror. Inside the car she saw a pair of worn work boots that Bellamy threw in the cab to make room for her. There’s a cup in the cup holder wearing the Dropship Café’s logo. At Clarke’s inquiry on how Bellamy knew where to borrow that shirt for her after Raven’s milkshake toss, he shared that he used to work as a busboy there when his family was tight for cash.

Finally, Clarke spots the book lying by her feet. She reaches down to grab it. _Atonement_ by Ian McEwan. The book is in good condition, but is clearly worn and far from new. When she flips carefully through it, Clarke finds notes stuck in the pages, scribbled on receipts and Post-Its in messy scrawl.

At the light, Bellamy’s eyes slide over and sees the book she’s thumbing through. He clears his throat. “Have you read it?”

“I haven’t, actually.”

“I read it at least once a year,” he says quietly. “Sometimes more. That’s why it looks like that. 

Clarke tears her eyes away from the note-filled pages to glance at him. “Why do you keep coming back to it?”

She’s the same way with books like _The Awakening_ and _Wuthering Heights_ and her other favorites. Re-reading them is like slipping into her dad’s worn Alpha University hoodie, comforting in its familiarly. But reading is such a personal experience. It’s different for everyone and she’s curious to hear Bellamy’s reasons.

Bellamy drums his fingers on the steering wheel in thought. “It’s…how I never finish the book thinking the same way I do when I start it. I learn something every time. About forgiveness or deceptions or just…human nature.”

Clarke smiles to herself. “’Books are mirrors; you only see in them what you already have inside you’.”

“Yeah, I like that one too. I also like judging people based on their reading history. You learn plenty about a person’s soul depending on what content they feed into it.”

“Hmm. The last book I read was _Vanity Fair_. What does that say about me?”

Bellamy hums to himself. “You like Victorian literature, particularly with female protagonists. The classics are your favorite because you enjoy being transported to the past, to a simpler era where the societal rules are different. And you relate to intelligent, ambitious characters like Becky Sharpe.

If someone asks you’ll say _Great Expectations_ or _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ is your favorite because you take yourself seriously and you want other people to see you that way. But I’d say your guilty pleasure is _Wuthering Heights_. The tragic romance and gothic elements appeal to you, even though you think it’s somehow beneath you to admit it.”

His eyes slide over to her expectantly. “Did I guess right?”

Clarke shuts her jaw with a snap. Yes, Bellamy figured out all of her preferences with annoying accuracy. But she isn’t going to _tell_ him that. Instead, she crosses her arms and turns her head to glare petulantly out the window.

She can practically feel his smugness wrapped around him like a radiating forcefield. _Smartass._

Bellamy chuckles lowly to himself. “Yeah. I thought so.” 

 

-

 

Clarke thought she knew all about the night life in the Valley, but Bellamy has all the trade secrets. At 3am, they arrive at the twenty-four-hour Park Mart. The store offers a variety of shopping experiences from groceries to linens to small appliances.

Bellamy collects a cart at the entrance, which they push in front of them as they walk the aisles. “So, Alpha University,” he says. “That’s where Raven is going, right?”

Clarke nods, watching him pull a loaf of bread off the shelf. “Yep.”

“Must be an impressive school, then. That girl is a genius,” Bellamy notes. After a pause, he gives her a side-long glance. “That must make _you_ brilliant too.”

She knocks into his broad shoulder, hardly budging him. “Is that so shocking? I was Valedictorian, you know.”

“If you’re such a brain,” he counters as they turn the corner onto another aisle, “how come you didn’t know not to flirt with another girl’s boyfriend in her own kitchen?”

Clarke’s heart stutters. Is he _admitting_ to flirting with her? Was _she_ flirting?  In response, she only wrinkles her nose at the reminder. “I’m book smart, not street smart.”

Bellamy snorts. “I wouldn’t call Echo _street_.”

He reaches over for a few boxes of cereal. He doesn’t have a list with him, yet seems to know what he needs. Clarke sighs as they keep walking. “You’re right, though. I was kind of…clueless. I guess I missed a lot in high school. Like, the social stuff.”

He shakes his head. “Nah, that stuff is overrated.”

Clarke raises a skeptical eyebrow, but he’s preoccupied loading up the cart with paper towels, plates and utensils. “That’s something only a popular person would say.”

“What makes you think I was popular?”

The way the girls described him made Bellamy sound pretty outgoing. Plus, he’s athletic and (ridiculously) attractive. From what Clarke’s observed, that’s all it takes for guys to be considered cool in high school.

“You were a bike pro,” she says and then gestures at his body, up and down. “And you know…”

“Actually I don’t.” Bellamy pauses, leaning his forearms on the cart’s handle and smirks at her. “Care to explain that?”

“Raven’s right,” Clarke mutters. “You really are an ass.”

He chuckles to himself, pushing the cart forward. It’s not a laugh, yet, but it makes Clarke smile and duck her head to hide it from him. Now, in the middle of a supermarket, they seem miles away from that conversation on the beach. Clarke is hit again at how _easy_ this is. Talking, bantering, just being with him. She’s never felt this comfortable with someone besides Wells.

Clarke is usually awkward and guarded around strangers. She never knows what to say, how to get people to like her. It feels complicated when it shouldn’t be, so she doesn’t bother. But Bellamy doesn’t feel like a stranger. More like they’ve known each other a lifetime and only a handful of days at the same time.

She doesn’t know if they’re quite friends yet, but that feels inevitable, somehow. Like they will be.

“Okay,” Bellamy gives in, grabbing a can of tomato soup. “I wasn’t a wallflower. But so what? That shit doesn’t matter in the real world.”

“Maybe it does,” she says, falling into step beside him again. “I mean; I’ve only done academic stuff—whatever made my transcripts look good. I had one close friend. There’s a lot I don’t know.”

“Like…”

“Like not to talk to a girl’s boyfriend in her own kitchen,” she replies wryly.

“Right.” The corner of Bellamy’s lips lift into a half-smirk again. “Well, there’s nothing like almost getting your ass kicked to hammer a lesson home. You won’t forget it.”

“True,” Clarke agrees. “But what about everything else?” At his questioning look, she explains. “The stuff I missed out on the last eighteen years. Like school dances or breaking curfew or…”

“Riding a bike,” he offers.

Clarke turns her head to glare at him. “What is it with you and the whole bike thing?”

Bellamy shrugs. “Hey, I am in the business. Look. It’s not too late to do those things, if you want.”

She considers this to herself as they head to the registers. Only one is open, where a sleepy-looking employee is yawning behind his hand. Clarke helps him unload everything onto the conveyer belt. “I don’t know,” she continues. “What would be the point now? Most of the stuff probably _is_ overrated.”

Bellamy looks down at her as the cashier slowly scans his items. “Who says there has to be a point? Or a reason. Maybe it’s just something you have to do.”

Clarke stops, letting that sink in. _Just something you have to do._ Like the nine o’clock dance or a trip to foreign cities across Europe. No excuse or rationale necessary. Clarke kind of likes that.

She waits for Bellamy to finish bagging his items and they carry his bags to the truck. After the Park Mart, he drives them to Lumber and Stone, the home improvement superstore. Clarke tags along as Bellamy stocks up on a box of nails and a value pack of lightbulbs. By the time they leave, the sun is peeking out over the horizon. Six am.

“Saw that,” Bellamy says when she stifles a yawn.

“This is the time I usually crash,” Clarke tells him.

He nods as they maneuver out of the parking lot onto the main street. “One last stop.”

Their final destination turns out to be the Gas/Gro. Bellamy parks in front of the store and turns back to her before he climbs out. “Want anything?”

Clarke covers up another yawn. “Surprise me.”

She rests her head back on the seat while he’s inside. The night has been more eventful than most. Bellamy is probably only in the store for five minutes, but it’s enough for her eyes close and her to slip under. Clarke startles awake when the driver’s side door opens again. Then Bellamy tosses something in her lap.

A laugh bursts out of her at the package of chocolate cupcakes. “Ass.” 

 

-

 

The next time, it’s Octavia’s turn to decide what they do for their night out. Clarke is already apprehensive about re-entering girl world. But then Octavia says she wants to go to the nightclub Tallyho.

“No no no to Tallyho,” Raven and Harper recite immediately. Clarke bites back a smile.

Octavia tosses her head back with a groan. “You have _one_ bad experience and you—”

Harper flings up a hand to start a countdown. “I’ve gotten puked on _twice_ actually. And there that was that time _you_ got us kicked out for starting a fight with that Ontari chick!”

Clarke isn’t surprised by this. Octavia may have the appearance of a pink powderpuff, but she’s learned how feisty the other girl actually is. Octavia knowing how to throw a proper right hook isn’t a joke, but something Bellamy actually taught her.

“ _And_ ,” Raven adds, leaning back on her elbows against Primrose’s register, “there was that time those fraternity guys bought us drinks all night and tried to follow us home after. Remember?”

“Ugh, fine,” Octavia huffs, crossing her arms. “The place is creepy guy central, but it’s the only club in town and I wanna go dancing!”

Raven and Harper exchanges looks. Clarke thinks they’ll give the veto, considering all the valid reasons they listed for avoiding this place. But then Raven sighs.

“Okay. But the second one of us gets groped, we’re out!”

Octavia nods. “That’s fair!”

Clarke’s eyes flit in between the three of them, surprised. “Wait. We’re actually going?”

Harper looks like she’s preparing for a root canal, but she nods. “That’s the rule. It’s O’s turn to pick, so we have to go. Unfortunately.”

Raven must notice the horror spreading on Clarke’s face, because she says, “Don’t worry. We have a strict buddy system. You’ll be safe.”

Clarke almost backs out on the spot. There is nothing appealing about the idea of visiting a nightclub—especially one where getting assaulted by some guy is _expected_ to happen. She isn’t one for dancing, either, but that’s exactly why Clarke ends up agreeing to it.

Because it’s something she’s never done before. Most likely she’ll regret it, but she isn’t going to let that stop her. It’s an experience. Good or bad, Clarke is willing to try it. At least once.

The girls get ready at Raven’s apartment. It’s a one-bedroom space, cluttered by a disorganized chaos that only Raven seems to understand. The excessive clutter makes Clarke itch inside, but she reminds herself it isn’t _her_ home to clean up. Raven shares with Clarke that her dad is out of the picture and her mother is a dysfunctional alcoholic, so as soon as she turned eighteen, Raven used her savings to get her own place. 

Getting dressed at Raven’s is mostly for her benefit, since Clarke doesn’t own any clothing acceptable for a nightclub. She and Raven aren’t the same size, but between the others sharing clothes, the huge haul that O shows up with and a combined group effort, they make it work.

Clarke squeezes herself into a tight black dress that—according to Octavia—make her boobs look _amazing_.

“You’ve got a great rack,” Octavia tells her, as blunt as ever. “Flaunt it.”

Raven lets her borrow a pair of red stiletto heels. She does her make-up as well, with cherry red lips and a sultry, smoky eye. Clarke doesn’t even recognize herself when she looks in the mirror and she feels a bit ridiculous, like a clown or a little girl playing dress-up.

Raven bumps her with her hip. “There’s nothing wrong with skanking-out for some fun.”

The term _skanking-out_ is what gets her to crack a smile. “Good. Because I only plan on doing this once.”

The whole getting-ready process is kind of chaotic and eats up time. The girls are constantly running around, talking over each other as they vote on outfits and share beauty products in between styling their hair with hot irons. Clarke lets Harper straighten hers. She likes the way it looks, even if she can’t both with the effort herself most days.

Finally, Raven calls for an Uber and they stuff themselves into the backseat. Tallyho is about a thirty-minute drive across town. It’s past midnight when they arrive and there’s already a long line snaking out the doors onto the sidewalk. The nightclub is a dark brick building with the word _Tallyho_ written in neon purple. Nothing extraordinary, but a sight for Clarke to see nonetheless.

“Murphy says he can get us in,” Raven says, looking up for her phone.

“Looks like the cockroach is good for something,” Octavia mutters with a smirk.

Once they dismount and pay for the cab, Raven leads them around to the back of the building. They hear the music thumping from inside and Clarke is already having flashbacks from Echo’s party. They reach a nondescript black door that Raven bangs on three times.

It swings open after a few seconds. A guy appears with dirty blonde hair and hooded blue eyes, scowling at them. He’s wearing a tight, black Tallyho shirt and a nametag that reads Cockroach.

“You guys are gonna get me fired,” he hisses. But he lets them in.

“Good looking out, Murphy,” Raven says as she passes him, patting him on the cheek.

“Yeah, yeah,” Murphy mutters once they’re inside, yanking the door shut. “You owe me a free oil change, Reyes.”

Raven rolls her eyes. “Fine. Bye!”

Murphy starts turning away, but then his eyes catch sight of Clarke. He scans over her, pausing on her exposed cleavage without shame and whistles lowly. “Who’s this?”

“Too good for you,” Octavia replies. She pushes him backward. “Go on. Those cocktails won’t mix themselves!”

Murphy walks backward, keeping his eyes on Clarke. “Find me if you want a free drink, Blondie!”

Clarke grimaces, turning her face away. “Nothing like getting leered at to start the night off right.”

Harper laughs. “Don’t mind Murphy. He’s not as slimy as he first appears.”

“Debatable,” Raven says. “He _will_ give you a drink on the house, though.”

The bar is crowded and Octavia is eager to dance, so the girls link arms and merge onto the slightly less packed dance floor. Clarke feels clumsy enough in six-inch heels, but adding dancing to the mix is just asking for someone to lose a toe. She tries to keep a safe distance from everyone else, bobbing awkwardly to the pulsing, fast beat.

Raven catches her eye, stopping her own graceful movements to smile at her. “Stop _thinking_ so hard, Griffin! Have fun.”

Easier said than done. Clarke is pretty sure _fun_ isn’t in her vocabulary. Everyone else around her is losing themselves in the music or the people they’re here with. Clarke feels like she might as well be wearing a neon sign stating she doesn’t belong here. Her feet ache in her heels and her movements are clunky, out of rhythm.

Then Octavia shouts over the music, “I have an idea!”

She reaches out for Clarke, grasping her hands and twirls her around. Octavia spins her to the center of their group. Then it’s Harper’s turn, spinning Clarke out to take her place in the middle. After a moment, Clarke catches on. They take turns twisting around each other and at Raven’s turn, she whirls her and Clarke around together in a loop until they’re both dizzy and laughing.

Harper and Octavia build a bridge with their arms for Raven to shimmy under. Harper does a terrible robot impression that Raven and Octavia join in on. Clarke copies their moves, so busy laughing at them and herself that her self-consciousness melts away. She forgets about the bodies around them. They’re just four girls, making idiots out of themselves together.

Time flies by once Clarke stops thinking about it. They take a break in between songs to catch their breath and get a drink. Clarke only gets a water bottle to hydrate herself. Raven drops down beside her, fanning herself with a napkin. “Having fun yet?”

Clarke swallows a sip of her water. “Believe it or not…yes.”

“Good.” Raven leans across the bar to signal someone, probably the bartender. “Yo, Cockroach!” she yells. “Why isn’t there a Martini in my mouth right now?”

Clarke laughs when Murphy flips her off while pouring into a highball glass for another patron. “Wait your fucking turn, Reyes. My magic hands are in high demand tonight.” He says this while winking at the brunette girl in front of him. “What can I get you, sweetheart?”

Raven screws up her face in disgust before drumming her fingers on the bar impatiently. Eventually, Murphy comes over to take their drink orders. Raven gets her Martini and a round of shots for Octavia and Harper.

Clarke watches in disbelief as Murphy gives the girls’ fake IDs barely more than a cursory glance before he starts mixing the drinks. It’s obvious the three of them are _not_ twenty-one. Clarke can’t believe people get away with that, outside of a movie.

Raven winks at her. “It pays to have an inside man.”

Octavia and Harper throw back their shots and jump right back onto the dance floor, but Raven stays next to Clarke, ordering a second Martini. A key part of their buddy system is that a girl never has to dance or drink alone.

Soon Raven reaches the bottom of her glass, producing a loud slurping sound when she sucks in only air. Clarke winces when she tries to flag down Murphy again.

“Maybe you should slow down,” she murmurs. “Here, have some of my water.”

Raven flaps her hand, dismissing this and almost smacks Clarke in the face. But she turns toward her, a bit clumsily on the bar stool. “Can you believe I wasted four years on Finn? _Four years_ , Clarke!”

Clarke presses her lips together. She isn’t surprised this is coming up while Raven’s inhibitions are lowered. However, _she_ is stone-cold sober and wishes one of the other girls could take her place for…whatever this is. Clarke isn’t unsympathetic. She gets dealing with break-ups are a messy, long process. Still, considering her role in this, it’s awkward to say the least.

“All of high school,” Raven continues, unaware of how loud her voice is then. “I spent some of the prime years of my _life_ on that…that lying, unfaithful, heartless prick!”

Clarke nods along. She tries to subtly nudge her water bottle toward the other girl.

“And for what?” Raven stabs at her glass with her straw, shaking her head to herself. “I thought he was love of my life. I really did. But he jumps into bed with the first hot tourist he sees without even _thinking_ about me.”

“Raven…” She sighs. “It’s isn’t about—”

Raven is staring deep into her glass, her eyes glossed over. Clarke isn’t sure she remembers someone else is sitting there or who that is. Her distraught expression tears at Clarke’s heart. “I was always picked first for everything, you know,” she says, voice quiet now, almost robotic. “Top of my class. Early acceptance to Alpha U. First, every time. How the hell did this happen to me?”

Clarke stretches out a hand, laying it on top of hers on the bar. Raven blinks the moisture out of her eyes, not looking up. Clarke hopes she’s listening. “Hey, Raven. I’d pick you first. Always.”

She sniffles. Slowly, her eyes raise to meet Clarke’s. She holds Raven’s gaze, wanting the other girl to understand how much Clarke means it. _I pick you over Finn._ She chooses this, to be here, proudly claiming their friendship and its awkward origin.

Finally, Raven manages a small smile. “Of course you would. I’m awesome.”

Clarke returns it. “Yeah, you are.”

Octavia finds them at the bar some time later, hustling the two of them back on the dance floor. One more dance turns into another and then another. Clarke is probably going to have blisters on her feet tomorrow—but in between the three girls, with the pulsing lights flickering across their skin and the heavy bass thundering in her chest like a kick drum, there is no tomorrow to worry about. Just right now.

They stay until last call, stumbling out of the club half-delirious and hungry and bitching to the world about their aching feet. Raven has the brilliant idea of going to the Waffle House, so that’s where they end the night.

Clarke thinks it makes a good snapshot moment, the four of them in a booth, exhausted and make-up smudged from sweat, but still laughing. They have plates of waffles and eggs and bacon laid out in front of them that they probably won’t finish. Clarke signals for their waitress.

“Hey, can you take a photo of us?”

Octavia moans. “No, my hair is a mess!”

Clarke hands over her phone as Octavia scoops her hair into a messy bun, Raven is still chewing eggs, and Harper’s head is tipped back, laughing. She already knows what the candid moment will look like without seeing the picture.

Maybe it will make in the BEST OF TIMES frame or maybe not. Either way, Clarke wants to capture this night and this feeling. She doesn’t want to forget it. 

 

-

 

Clarke stays behind at Primrose’s one night, long after Octavia and Harper have gone home. She runs next door to Beach Beans to grab herself a coffee and then sits down to untangle an error she caught in Stella’s books. It’s midnight by the time she wraps up and finally locks the doors behind her.

Clarke wonders what Bellamy is up to when she checks the time on her phone. He’s been on her mind more lately since their excursion a couple of nights ago. Her girls’ night out at Tallyho kept her preoccupied last night, but now the night is stretched out before her again, vast and unfilled.

Is he wandering the aisles at the Park Mart? Is he grabbing a bag of Funyuns at the Gas/Gro, en route to somewhere else? There are so many hidden spots in the Valley, more than Clarke ever imagined. And now that the option exists for her explore them with someone, with _him_ …that’s all she wants.

She is without the girls’ protective barrier and is out in the open on the boardwalk, lingering. Just her luck that a familiar voice calls out to her. “Clarke!”

Her fingers squeeze the keys in her hand. It’s Finn. Can’t he take a hint? Clarke made it perfectly clear she wants nothing to do with him. And she is _not_ having that uncomfortable conversation for the second time.

She can hear his footfalls, coming closer from the end of the boardwalk. Clarke debates what to do. Barricading herself inside Primrose’s is an unappealing option. She starts walking in the opposite direction, tuning out Finn’s voice as he calls for her to wait. Most of the businesses are locked up for the night, so Clarke ducks into the first place she finds open.

It’s the untitled bike shop. The bell rings overheard when Clarke pulls the door shut behind her and leans against it. She probably looks like she’s running from a serial killer in a horror movie. Not that far off. Finn won’t leave her alone. And when he’s not stalking her, he’s harassing Raven about forgiving him.

Clarke looks up, her wide eyes taking in the scene. There’s soft rock music playing from an iPod in the corner of the room and only three people in the store. The first two are Jasper and Monty, sitting at a plastic table playing cards, a bag of Doritos split between them. The air also smells suspiciously of weed.

The third is the guy from Tallyho, with the Cockroach name tag. Murphy. His blue eyes zero in on Clarke when the bell announces her sudden arrival.

“Hey, it’s Clarke!” Jasper cries out first, his excited voice loud and possibly a bit slurred. “Perfect. Now we have a guinea pig!”

“I think you mean _victim_ ,” Murphy drawls scornfully.

“Shh,” Monty shushes him, setting down his cards. He speaks in a hush tone, like she’s a frightened animal. “You’ll scare her away.”

“Um.” Clarke glances between them uncertainly. “I’m not here to buy anything, sorry. I was just avoiding someone.”

“Collins?” The bartender asks with a smirk.

Clarke scowls. Irritation makes her voice sharper than she means to. “God. Does _everyone_ is this town know about that?”

“Pretty much,” he replies, still smirking like this amuses him. His eyes scan over her up and down. “Your dirty secrets aren’t safe here, Blondie.”

“Shut up, Murphy,” Jasper says before Clarke can snap at him. She already has one creepy guy in her life, she doesn’t need another. To her he adds, “Clarke, this is Murphy. Just ignore him.”

“Gladly.” Clarke throws him a dirty look that only makes Murphy’s smirk widen before coming over to join the boys at their table. She’s starving, not having eaten since before her shift, and helps herself to some chips.

“Since you’re avoiding Finn,” Monty continues, exchanging a sly look with Jasper. “You _must_ be in need of hard liquor.”

Her eyebrow raises, unsure of how to respond to that. Her input isn’t necessary, however. This seems to be some kind of signal because Jasper jumps up and ducks out of the room. He returns in record time, carrying a dark liquor bottle that is only marked by a crossbones skull and the number 48.

Clarke’s apprehension grows. “What the hell is that?”

Jasper grins, his brown eyes gleaming. He resembles a mad scientist as he brandishes the bottle over his head and grandly announces, “Our homemade moonshine! This is batch #48. And Clarke is going to be the first to sample it.”

She shakes her head immediately. “No, she isn’t. Jasper, that has a _skull_ on it.”

He laughs. “Come on, Clarke. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

Murphy snorts, jumping down from the counter. He comes closer just to sneer at her. “Please. Sandra Dee over here doesn’t have an adventurous bone in her body.”

Clarke rounds on him. He picked the wrong night to provoke her. “Excuse me?”

“I saw you at Tallyho, remember? Wouldn’t have a single drop of booze.” He grins at her, all sharp teeth. “What’s wrong? Too much for _fun_ for you, goodie-goodie?” 

“Whoa,” Monty’s eyes bounce between the two of them. “Clarke, are you gonna take that?”

She knows they’re just egging her on. And the stupid thing is—it’s working. Clarke is competitive by nature and she can’t just ignore the challenge Murphy threw down. Or the superior way he’s looking at her, like he has her all figured out after _five_ minutes of interaction.

Clarke will prove him wrong, although there’s a good chance she’ll _die_ from whatever concoction is in that bottle.

“Call it like I see it,” Murphy taunts right beside her. “She plays it safe, don’t you, Clarke?”

Clarke shoves past him, knocking Murphy back a few feet. She bypasses the shot glasses lined up on the table and go straight for the bottle in Jasper’s hand. The cork dislodges with a loud _pop._ Monty and Jasper’s cheers lead her on as Clarke takes one long swig from the bottle while flipping Murphy off with her right hand.

The annoyance of Finn’s harassment tonight and Murphy’s quick (maybe accurate) judgment is a deadly combination. Clarke has no idea what she’s doing. Maybe being in the Valley is rubbing off on her. She’s getting more impulsive by the day. Considering the things she’s already done this summer, she might as well keep the streak going.

Finally, Clarke lowers the bottle and swallows the rest of her mouthful. It burns going down her throat. Her eyes water from the potency of it and she sees Jasper and Monty gaping at her, eagerly awaiting her assessment. Or they’re waiting to see if she’ll pass out. 

Clarke takes a Herculean effort to not cough or gag. She breathes through her nose. Then, “This could double as rocket fuel,” she tells them bluntly.

There’s a pause before Jasper starts laughing and Monty nods thoughtfully. “That’s helpful.”

Clarke’s eyes cut to Murphy’s, arching her brows at him in her own challenge. He’s smiling now as he salutes her with two fingers. “I’ve been wrong before. Enjoy it while it lasts, Blondie.”

She rolls her eyes and then extends the bottle out to him. “Your turn, Cockroach.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Murphy accepts the moonshine, taking a few long sips for himself. He’s interrupted by Monty snatching the bottle away from him. “We have shot classes, you uncultured swine!” he shouts.

Clarke laughs as Monty pours the clear liquid into shots for him and Jasper. She’s definitely feeling the alcohol going straight to her head, unable to stop her giggling after the moment passes. “See,” she cries, pointing at Murphy. “I’m _fun_.”

Smirking, Murphy takes a shot glass in each hand, raising one to her. “I’ll drink to that. To fun blondes!”

Clarke throws back the shot, despite the still-functioning part of her brain telling her it’s a terrible idea. Her alcohol tolerance is practically non-existent. She’s only gotten drunk _once_ on beer in high school and regretted it the next day. Wells regretted it even more, seeing as he had to help take care of her hangover.

Jasper decides that they should play a drinking game. Clarke thinks there’s a good reason she should leave. There’s something else she should be doing right then, but the fog of homemade whisky soon rolls over her and silences those thoughts.

The game Murphy wants to play, which he calls Murphy’s Game, is that he, Jasper and Monty have to guess things about Clarke’s life. And vice versa for Clarke, since she’s a stranger to them. If the guys guess correctly, she has to do a shot. If they don’t, they each have to take a shot.

Murphy’s first guess is that she’s a virgin.

Clarke rolls her eyes so hard she’s surprised they don’t fall out of her head. “You _know_ I hooked-up with Finn. God, Murphy, you give us blondes a bad name.”

Jasper and Monty crack up at that. They make Murphy take the shot by himself on account of it being a dumbass guess. Clarke correctly guesses that Jasper and Monty have been best friends their whole lives.

“That one is obvious!” Murphy complains after he downs his shot. “They’re like fucking Burt and Ernie.”

“From cradle to grave!” Jasper knocks his glass against Monty’s, almost spilling it on the floor.

Monty is the one to correctly guess she’s never been arrested, followed by Jasper’s guess she grew up an only child. Two more shots that stop burning as they go down.

After Clarke calls out that Murphy _has_ been arrested—much to her curiosity—and Jasper’s favorite subject in school was chemistry, they’re all too drunk to remember the questions in the first place.

The game somehow morphs into Jasper showing off how many bike helmets he can stack together while the rest of them watch. Murphy suddenly jumps up from his chair and startles Jasper into knocking down his impressive tower.

“Hey!” Jasper shouts. “That was my _masterpiece_ you monster.”

Murphy rolls his eyes. “Whoops. Anyway, I gotta sober up before my shift starts. Later, dipshits.”

“Charming,” Clarke mutters.

“You know you love it.” Murphy winks and then he’s out the door.

Clarke turns to the other boys once he’s gone. “I can’t decide if he’s the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met…or I like him.”

“It’s an unsettling feeling,” Monty agrees, bobbing his head. “But you get used to it.”

Clarke carefully get to her feet after Murphy leaves, not trusting her balance just yet. Monty and Jasper are too busy throwing chips into each other mouths to catch her if she keels over. Her face is feverishly warm and the room tilts sideways even once Clarke is standing upright. Yep. She’s drunk.

Jasper laughs lowly and she realizes a beat late that she actually said _oh shit, I’m drunk_ out loud. “You can crash here, Clarke. We have a couch in the back.”

She waves him off. “S’fine. I don’t live far.”

If it were anywhere else but Shallow Valley, stumbling home drunk wouldn’t be an option. As it is, this town is pretty quiet at 2 in the morning and Clarke only has to make it a couple blocks before her dad and Stella’s house comes into view. The cool breeze feels good on her overheated body, though it does little to sober her up.

Clarke approaches from the back of the house, figuring she’ll use the sliding door to sneak in. If her dad is still up in his office, the last thing Clarke wants is to run into him this drunk. Or at all. She’s been doing a decent job of avoiding him since their fight, other than a polite greeting in passing due to their conflicting schedules.

Only she must not be as stealthy as she’s going for. Clarke trips right onto the deck and swears loudly when her foot smacks into it. Hard.

“Son of a bitch!” she hisses. “I can’t see _anything._ What the fuck?”

“Clarke?”

Her eyes flit around the darkness in confusion. She can’t locate the source of the voice. Belatedly, she turns her face up and notices the figure gawking at her from the balcony next door. Bellamy.

“Of _course_ you’re here,” she mutters. He has to witness her stumbling and swearing like an idiot.

“I live here,” he answers. Bellamy squints at her from behind his glasses. “Are you drunk?”

“So what?” Clarke says, a tad defensively. “I was sampling the moonshine, okay?”

Comprehension fills his face. “Jasper and Monty got to you, huh? Damn, you must be wasted. Hold on.”

Clarke certainly isn’t going anywhere, her foot throbbing in pain like it is. Still, she waits as Bellamy sets down his book and hoists himself over the railing of the balcony. With a lot more dexterity than she displayed, he uses the big tree between their houses to climb down onto the grass.

He walks over to her, pushing his glasses up his nose. So adorable she almost reaches over to pinch his freckled cheek. “I looked for you at the Gas/Gro,” he murmurs. “Guess I know now what you got up to.” 

He was looking for her? In her drunk state, Clarke can’t hide her dopey grin at that or deny the way it makes her stomach flip. “Well, I can’t resist a challenge,” she explains softly. “And Murphy was being a judgey asshole, so I drank the moonshine.”

Bellamy nods in understanding. “Sounds like Murphy. You shouldn’t be walking home like this, though. Why didn’t you call me?”

Clarke’s eyes widen. That’s a lot of information to process. First, Bellamy’s expression stills, like he can’t believe he said that either. But he doesn’t take it back. She deduces they’re at the point when she _can_ call him if she needs him, which Clarke _really_ likes. And Bellamy is worried. He cares about her getting home safely. Suddenly, this weird night got so much better.

“I don’t have your number.” Then Clarke gasps. “How do I not have your number? We need to fix this. Gimme your phone.”

Instead of doing that, Bellamy grins at her. A smug grin, but it’s genuine and it makes his face even more gorgeous. “I have yours already. You gave it to me, remember?”

She gapes at him. It takes a minute to click in her sluggish mind. Two years ago, she wrote her cell phone number on his arm in eyeliner. “You _kept_ that?” she asks, incredulous.

Bellamy shrugs. “Thought I might need it one day. Looks like I was right.”

For some reason, this pleases her. Clarke made an impression on him too. Then something occurs to her and makes her glare up at him. “Tell me my contact name isn’t _Princess_.”

He grins at her again. Bellamy is clearly enjoying her filter-less, drunk state, but she doesn’t mind seeing him so amused. He’s really cute when he smiles like that.  “It’s my phone. You don’t get a say, Clarke.”

“Fine.” Clarke fumbles through her bag until she retrieves her phone and pushes it into his chest. “You’re getting a stupid contact name too. Gimme your number.”

Bellamy obliges, typing in his information. He hands her phone back when he’s done and Clarke thinks hard for a minute, hunting for the perfect nickname to match his inaccurate one for her. She decides on _Cupcake_.

He snorts when he sees it. “I’ll take it. Now let’s get you to bed, Princess.”

Clarke doesn’t bother with her protests about not being tired. With this much alcohol sloshing through her system, she might pass out as soon as her head hits the pillow. Silently, she mourns that she won’t be killing the hours until sunset with Bellamy tonight. All during her shift, the possibility clung in the back of her mind and she looked forward to it.

Bellamy lets Clarke lean on him as they round the house to the front door. She greedily inhales the scent of his earthy cologne and hopes he doesn’t notice. He uses her key to let them inside. It becomes apparent once they reach the stairs that Clarke—uncoordinated, tired, foot throbbing—can’t make it up on her own.

“That is _so_ not happening,” Clarke says loudly.

Bellamy shushes her, fighting back a smile. “Okay, put your arms around me.”

Sober Clarke would hesitate, but _this_ Clarke doesn’t need to be told twice. She throws her arms around Bellamy’s neck, interlocking them. Bellamy sweeps an arm under her legs and picks her up bridal-style, carrying her the rest of the way to her bedroom.

He nudges the door open and sets her down carefully once they past the threshold.

Clarke drops like a dead weight on her bed. “Thanks, Bellamy. I probably would have died trying to get upstairs.”

“Yeah, probably,” he agrees. She laughs quietly. Bellamy lingers as she removes her shoes with painful effort. “Out of curiosity, any particular reason for the drinking tonight?”

Clarke frowns, flopping back on her bed once her shoes are off. Her lack of drinking experience really is that obvious. Then again, Bellamy did witness her fail to tap a keg. “Avoiding Finn, I guess. And I wanted to prove I could be fun.”

“You don’t have to prove that,” Bellamy says, amusement laced in his low voice. “I have fun with you, Clarke.”

Her eyelids are drooping at this point. She can’t see him, can’t tell if he means that or if he’s making fun _of_ her. “You think I’m fun?” she mumbles.

“Yeah. I do.”

She’s drifting off by the time Bellamy sneaks away. At some point, he must have dragged the trash can next to her bed and set a cup of water on the night stand, beside some pills. Clarke takes them instantly when she wakes up, feeling like the seventh circle of hell has invaded her body.

Demon whiskey. Clarke vows to never drink again.

It’s only after she showers and feels more like herself that memories come flooding back. She made an idiot out of herself in front of _Bellamy._ Oh God, he had to carry her upstairs. Did she say anything embarrassing? Clarke doesn’t want to know, but she _has_ to.

She texts him. _Did I say anything weird last night?_

His reply comes almost instantly. _Define weird._

_Bellamy._

_Relax,_ he answers. _You just said my freckles were beautiful. Like constellations._

Christ. She has no memory of that. Well, it could worse. _Thanks, for helping me out._

 _Anytime, princess._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your sweet comments. Let me know what you guys think <3
> 
> *"Books are mirrors; you only see in them what you already have inside you". Quote by Carlos Ruiz Zafron*

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all liked it so far! Next chapter should be following soon. 
> 
> Stalk me on [tumblr](http://www.kombellarke.tumblr.com) <3


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